#i had to remove lots of frames because it was too heavy

[dark-moonlust]

Quickie With your Naga

Pairing: doctor naga x f!reader Summary: you visit your doctor husband at his office but you both get so horny and you have a quickie fuck. Warnings: minors don't interact, 18+!!!!, monster smut, two 🍆, p in v sex, breasts and clit stimulation, lots of 💦.

It was noon and you walked the silent hallways of the clinic, heading to your husband’s office. Your naga husband was a doctor at a prestigious clinic. He’d been working nonstop lately and you’d missed him. So when he’d texted you that there had been a lull in his hectic schedule, you’d been ecstatic. You wanted to see him, touch him, even for a few minutes.

You smiled and stopped in front of the door to Dr. Gareth’s office, your heart pounding. A gentle knock and you entered. The office was dimly lit, the blinds drawn, casting shadows across the small room. Gareth looked up from his desk, his green eyes lighting up upon seeing you. You barely had time to respond before he reached you, pulling you for a hug and pressing you against the door.

“I’ve missed you, baby,” he murmured as he claimed your lips, kissing you with all the love and longing in him.

You responded eagerly, hugging him tightly and kissing him back. His long, serpentine tail coiled around your legs, then travelled up to secure the lock at the door. You moaned against his mouth, surely he wasn’t going to fuck you here. Yet, he surely was because his hands, deft and skilled, tugged at your clothes, not bothering to remove them completely.

You tried to speak but he devoured your mouth, fingers tugging at the neckline of your shirt and dragging down your bra to cup your heavy breasts and push them into his hungry mouth. You bit your lips as he suckled one nipple then the other, while pulling up your skirt and yanking your panties to the side.

“You’re always so ready for me,” he growled when his fingers found your wetness.

You heard him unfasten his clothes, the heat of his cocks pressing against your inner thigh.

Your pussy fluttered.

Groaning softly, your hands clutched at his shoulders. “Are you sure—”

“Couldn’t be more sure, my love. I crave you,” he drawled, leaving quiet kisses along your neck and collarbone.

“I need you, too,” you whimpered and arched into him, your belly pooling with arousal.

He didn’t waste any time.

Slipping his hands to cup your ass, he lifted you and pushed you down into the nearest couch. His big frame covered you, his tail wrapping around your tits and squeezing them delightfully. He splayed your legs wide, rubbing his rigid cocks along your soaked cunt. Biting back a groan, you cupped his shafts, they were equally long and hard, so ready for you, the tips slick with precum.

“Put me inside your pretty cunt,” he moaned, licking around one nipple while pinching the other between thumb and forefinger.

You did so, guiding the heads at your entrance and closing your eyes as every blessed inch of him filled you completely. Usually he fucked both your holes, but your mating was frantic, your ass unprepared. Your thoughts faded as he went deeper and deeper until he bottomed out, the cockheads kissing your cervix. You moaned lewdly but he instantly silenced you with a wet sloppy kiss.

“Quiet, my love,” he murmured, his mouth nibbling at your lower lip. “We can’t let anyone hear us.”

“Hmm… sorry.” You didn’t trust yourself to say more.

Never stopping kissing you, Gareth started thrusting, pounding into you desperately. His tail freed your tits so he could watch them bouncing up and down, guiding the tip between your bodies to rub at your clit. You clung to him in agony, your nails digging into his back, wrinkling the fabric of his coat.

It was so hard to stay quiet.

His cocks were thick, stretching you wide. They anchored inside you while his tail sweetly tormented your clit, building up your pleasure.

Your orgasm was ripped from you almost violently and you bit your lips to keep from screaming out. It was too good, too much and yet not enough. You clutched him for dear life, your body hot, toes clenching in your shoes. He growled in your ear, his hands gripping your hips and fucking you through your orgasm, his scales brushing against your sensitive skin.

“Again,” he commanded, his voice rough. “Cum for me again.”

“C…ahn—can’t—” You thrashed from beneath him, overstimulated and driven wild by his frantic thrusts.

“You can, sweetheart,” he cooed and kissed you, slamming inside you again and again, your juices squelching in the quiet of the room.

Kisses were peppered on your face, his cocks sliding in and you of your drenched cunt frothing with your juices. The tip of his tail reached at where you were joined, opening your outer labia so he could pound as deep as possible inside you. Your breath was ripped from you, the coil of pleasure tightening in your belly, and you knew that once again you were close to shattering.

When your orgasm ignited and your cunt started convulsing around him, he claimed your lips, his tongue pushing into your mouth. He swallowed down your moans of bliss and followed almost immediately, burying himself to the hilt and spurting load after load of his seed. You trembled with little ripples, but he held you captive to his embrace, the warmth of his release filling you up.

Once he finally stopped cumming, he pulled out of you with a wet squelch, his cum overflowing your pussy. Smiling smugly at the sight, he tugged your panties back into place, the fabric instantly soaking with wetness. With one last kiss over your now rosy tits, he straightened your clothes and combed your hair with his fingers.

“There,” he said, his voice a sultry drawl. “My wife is ready. Well-fucked and achingly pretty.”

“Baby, I need to wash—”

“No, baby. I want you to feel me,” he said, his finger rubbing over your drenched panties. “Want your pussy to trickle with my cum as you leave my office.”

“Horny naga,” you teased, slapping his chest lightly.

He smiled mischievously as he helped you stand up. “When I come back home tonight, I want you naked and ready for me.”

You nodded, already feeling a delicious ache between your legs. “I’ll be waiting for you, husband.”

With a final kiss on his lips, you left his office, your body still thrumming with the aftershocks of your frantic fucking.

Did you enjoy? Any kind of support would be greatly appreciated 🖤

[forteafy]

You Think, You Know | CL16 & CS55

Summary: Some bridges are due to burn, whilst others are destined to mend. Charles wants to lead you into a traditional happily-ever-after, whilst Carlos is still adamant that he can always treat you better. Part 3 of ‘A House, A Home.’

Word Count: 11.3k

Warnings: angst, shouting, a lot of swearing, mentions of cheating and divorce. SMUT. Non-protected sex, oral (M&F receiving,) squirting, degradation, aftercare always.

Note: Thank you all so, SO much for being so patient with me. I really wanted this to be something special and I hope you all enjoy it. Please don't get mad at me because this one is emotional. A massive thank you to my biggest cheerleaders, @oconso, @formulaforza, @a-distantdreamer & @silverstonesainz - I love you all so much.

PART 1: A House, A Home | PART 2: Where Do We Go? | PART 3: 'You Think, You Know'

You loved your sleep.

There was never too much that could wake you from your slumber. Currently, with the combined sensations of crisp sheets tucked across your frame, soft sunlight drawing through the transparent curtains of the bedroom and snug, strapping arms encircling your waist, it would have to be some form of miracle to awaken you.

The form of this came in the body pressed tightly into your back; smoothly, a pair of lips are drawn to your cheekbone, satin kisses being dropped against your skin. Was it possible to awaken to such a soothing interaction? Your face is drawn to the feeling, turning in his interlocked arms, the side of your face nuzzling into the cushion as your eyes meet the deep, dark pools of his. 

“Good morning.” Carlos whispers, joyful at your rise from shuteye. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been lying there himself, simply basking in the pleasure of holding the girl of his dreams against his firm body. The man was constantly on a lifeline; each time you interacted with him, he’s certain it would be his last, that one day, you’ll be violently ripped from his arms and his heart. 

Suspended in thought, the Spainard is drawn back to reality with the glowing touch of your palm on his skin. Immediately, one of his arms draws away from your waist, resting his own larger hand atop of yours. You look alluring like this; sleep still decorates your eyes, hair tangled from the deep sleep, yet perfect in every sense of the word. 

“Morning.” You respond, allowing yourself to set your gaze upon his face for a little longer. It’s a sin, settling in your stomach at how that same face had lifted from between your leg’s mere hours ago, the remanence of your arousal ever-present atop his stubble. You were certain he had a mouth crafted by the angels, the way his lips had toyed with your most sensitive parts and the way they currently pulled into an enticing smile in the present. 

Two bodies, two souls were entwined in that bed; you weren’t too sure how long you lay there alongside him, reveling in one another’s morning appearances. All you know in that moment is Carlos is overtaking your mind, sprinting through every vein in your body. Every unanswered question from the previous night rendered numb as the man leant forward in your touch, his lips gaining space on your own. 

There’s a sudden, sharp buzz from the other room, causing you both to retract from one another, bodies deep in the king-size mattress. A chuckle leaves his own mouth, running a heavy hand across his face, heart still pounding from the sudden jump of sound in the silent apartment. Something in your heart told you that buzz was for you. Whining from the sudden loss of warmth, you remove yourself from the bundle of blankets and body heat, bare feet padding into his living room, aware of your mobile phone, resting atop of the counter. 

The device gave a heavy buzz once more before you had the realization to pick it up, the battery barely there. You absent-mindedly call out to the man in the bedroom, asking if he had a phone charger you could borrow for a little while. There's clutter from the other room, clearly trying to find a space for your own phone. Whilst that incurred, your eyes flickered across the darkening screen, skin turning cold upon reading the text notifications. 

02:51: Charles Leclerc

I’m in love with you.

02:53: Charles Leclerc

I’m so sorry she was there – I had no idea. She’s gone now, can I come and collect you? Where are you?

03:25: Charles Leclerc

Please let me know you’re safe as soon as you can. Can I come and see you in the morning, please?

08:47: Charles Leclerc

Good morning, my love. How are you feeling today?

Guilt washed through your stomach, not for the interaction you had shared with Carlos; Charles had done substantially worse to you for the past twelve months. No, you knew what it felt like to have no response from somebody you cared for, terrified for their well-being. Even when Charles hadn’t cared for you, you had still nursed him, waiting up for his return in the early hours of the morning. 

With the remainder of your phone battery, fingers fly over the keyboard. Did you want your husband to come and collect you, specifically from his teammates home? He was aware of your building friendship with the Spainard, even if it wasn’t entirely platonic. There wasn’t a huge choice; you especially didn’t want to demand or pry a lift off Carlos, especially after he had come to collect you so late the previous night. 

08:58: You

Good morning, I’m at Carlos’ place. I’d really appreciate a lift back to the house, if that’s okay. 

The message barely had time to send before it’s marked as ‘read’. Immediately, the blue speech bubble pops to the lower corner of your phone, signaling a response was being formed.

09:00: Charles Leclerc

You don’t need to even ask. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. 

Fifteen minutes was not enough time to conceal everything which had happened in the previous hours. Feet now cold, legs now littered in goosebumps, you’d scrambled back into his bedroom, the man now on his own feet, those damn gray jogging bottoms hanging on his hips, a visible outline ever-present. It took your entire soul to remain strong, knowing how tempting this man could become in a matter of moments. 

“Charles is on the way.” You state, suspecting that it would cease all his movements, and allow yourself to get ready for your husband’s arrival. Instead, he’d stepped closer to your frame, leaning his toned torso towards you, locking you in his muscled arms, hiding his face in the skin he’d licked and bitten across the previous night. His mumbles are incoherent, littering across your neck in broken Spanish. He’s saying something. Something you can’t understand but is undeniably a plea for you to stay in his arms. 

Carlos stays pretty much attached to you the entire time you’re preparing for your departure; his body is pressed against yours, littering kisses to the crown of your head whilst you brush your teeth. His scent is so dominating on the hoodie he insists you borrow, slipping that atop of your frame whilst pulling on the bottoms you had wiggled out of the previous evening. The man’s heart explodes upon seeing you bundled into his clothing, a possessive streak striking through his body and soul. 

When your bag is packed, face washed and phone charging, now on the counter of his kitchen, you spend the last few minutes waiting for your husband’s adamant arrival by bundling into Carlos’ side on his plush sofa. It feels entirely natural by this point; his arms encircle your waist, letting you lie against his sternum, soothing yourself to his naturally steady heartbeat. A snippet of your heart desires to take this sole moment and capture it for a lifetime. Safe. Warm. Happy. 

The moment is wafted away from you both with the sudden rapping of knuckles on the front door. Whining, your eyes trail on the Spaniard, focused as he presses a final, fleeting kiss to your temple, pulls himself up from the couch and paces towards the hallway. Your own ears strain to hear the latch lift of the front door, Charles praises for looking after you the previous evening falling over his lips, two pairs of footsteps drawing into the front room. 

Your husband, despite his usual god-like appearance, looked terrible. His hair pushed to the front, clearly in need of a wash and brush. His skin was rubbed raw, face bloodshot; clearly, he hadn’t got a single moment of sleep the previous night, still dressed in the clothes he’d traveled home in the previous night. Despite the heavy lids of his eyes, they still light up when falling onto you. 

“Good morning.” He gives you a smile, only you. You can feel Carlos’ disappointment, even if you can’t see his eyesight at that moment. A pocket-sized smile from your own lips is offered in return, pulling yourself up in that moment, reaching for your bag which remained on the floor, slipping into your soft sneakers.

“Are you ready?” You’d asked softly. Charles’ mouth opened, hesitating before he spoke. He was thinking clearly. 

“I just need to speak to Carlos quickly. Something…private.” He tries to explain his standings, tries to make you feel less awkward as he reaches for the car keys resting in his hoodie pocket. “Are you okay to wait in the car?” He asks softly. He feels in no power to demand your movements, yet he requires one private word with his teammate. 

Your eyes don’t bother to meet Charles, instead immediately flying to meet the dark ones of your unofficial lover. What on god’s earth was your husband about to ask, and why did he want to do it out of your earshot? The look that you give the man says a thousand words, asking if he needs you to stay, hold your ground against Charles. The warm eyes of him give everything you need, silently promising he could handle this man. An entire conversation through looks alone, a skill the two of you had developed so naturally. 

Silently, you take the keys from Charles’ outstretched hand, skin flinching when being pressed against the cool metal. You don’t so much as glance in his direction when you’re walking to the counter, picking up your phone and stuffing it into the pouch of your borrowed hoodie. When turning on your heel, you pace back to Carlos, pressing a surprising kiss to his right cheek, murmuring a ‘Thank You,’ just for his hospitality, of course. You had done all the thanking for the number of orgasms you were granted the previous night. 

The walk towards your husband’s car, the SUV rather than his identifiable Pista, your mind clouded, clotted with an array of questions. Why did Charles need to speak to Carlos alone? Was he aware of the relationship the two had been sharing for an undefinable amount of time? Who on earth was the blonde woman giving you a death stare as she walked up the pathway to the complex, red lips practically hissing at your appearance, storming past you within half a second?

When you turn back to take in her appearance from behind, a sense of sickness settles into your stomach. You’d seen the back of that blonde head before; not in person, but rather on a phone screen. Your phone screen, held between white knuckles as you’d watched the man you had begun to fall for wrap his arms around another woman's lips meshed in a private nightclub, unaware of the multiple cameras capturing their searing moment. 

That was the same woman, identical in her mannerisms. You felt your tummy curdle into pain, into your vague realization that the only reason Carlos had offered you a place in his home, and subsequently his bed that evening, was because he was trying to fill a void until she returned to the scene. Your stomach wanted nothing more than to empty its remaining content in sheer shock. Instead, you breathe deeply, unlocking the door to the car, climbing into the passenger seat and closing your eyes, relaxing into the plush leather of the upholstery. 

You’re not sure how long your husband takes, eyes growing heavy as you await his return. It’s only realized when the driver’s door clicks open, rolling in your seat to watch as Charles climbs into his own, a frown resting at the bottom of his face. However, it’s immediately vanquished when his eyes latch onto your own, grinning at your presence, so close to him. A warm hand reaches out, brushing over the back of your head, sheerly enjoying the comfort you radiated. He'd been lost without you for the past twelve hours. 

Your eyes begin to feel heavy again, though you’re determined to get through the car ride alert, even if the soft scent of his cologne and the gentle lulling tunes from the morning radio are drawing you back to your previous state. Instead, you think of that woman. No, not the mistress you had grown numb to; the blonde woman, the one pressed against Carlos’ chest and lips mere hours after you had been. The glint in your husband’s eye is telling as you go through your endless thoughts, he knows something. 

“The blonde lady going into Carlos’ apartment.” Your voice is completely out of pocket, echoing through the front of the SUV. “Who was she?” There’s no beating around with the question you had asked; there’s no trying to sugar coat what you needed to know. Charles knows it, too. He knows he can’t hide the truth from you, you’re too smart for lies and manipulation, a year married with a mistress had taught him that.

Instead, he emits a deep sigh from his lips, knuckles tightening on the steering wheel as he focuses on the road. “Natasha.” The name falls from his lips, he can’t meet your gaze, not when speaking about another woman to his wife. “She used to work for Ferrari’s PR but left just under a year ago. Carlos and her used to-“ 

“Date?” You’d cut him off without realizing, eyes widening when he’d shaken his head. 

“No, not date.” He responds. “They just had…a thing. Something.” He finished his train of thought, still not mentally ready to turn to you. In a comforting way, you were glad he hadn’t; Charles was unable to see the tears pooling at your lower lash line, the desire to rip off the hoodie now suffocating your body. You learnt in your heart that moment, you were apparently nothing special to Carlos. No, he had a thing. Something, with any woman who passed his way was as a wandering fancy. 

The tears decorating your eyes and desire to relax into the leather seat eventually overpowers your emotionally drained body, pulling you back into a slumber. 

You loved the sound of music.

A faint tune, one you were certain you’d never heard before lured through your ears, drawing you back to consciousness. You couldn’t remember getting home, let alone getting out of the car and tucking yourself into the comfort of your own bed. Groaning, you’d sat yourself up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and stretching the twinge in your back simultaneously. 

The music wasn’t coming from your room; the sound was beautiful, you just needed to locate its source. Your feet twinge when they touch the floor, cool floorboards easing the temperature of your socks. Opening the ajar door to your bedroom, the music grows louder, sound clearly emitting from downstairs, your feet carry you to the staircase with no hesitation. However, when reaching the top of the staircase, eyebrows crease together in confusion, taking in your once-ragged appearance in the crystal mirror. 

Your hair had been braided, albeit not elegantly, but at least out of your face, something you did almost religiously before sleeping. Your attire had changed, too, once you were dressed in Carlos’ sage hoodie. Now, your body was engulfed by Charles’ charcoal jumper, sleeves too long but an entire comfort for your drained mind. Is this what it felt like, to be nurtured and cared for by your husband? The pit of your stomach felt airy; this had been everything you desired for so long. And yet, now you had experienced somebody else, despite the heartbreak, your mind was utterly torn. 

Music grows louder, your mind is suddenly focused back on its original target. With no hesitation now, you began to walk down the flight of stairs, noting your bag and phone resting by the front door. Even with as many notifications as you’d missed in your time asleep, priorities overtook, making your way towards the lounge, eyes transfixed on the figure by the French windows.

Charles Leclerc sat, comfortably and quietly, gentle fingers dancing over the keys of his piano. The soft lights of the room illuminated the figure, a tune you had never heard was fluttering around the open space. 

Of course, you had heard him play the instrument multiple times; during his time spent at the house rather than on the track, he remained transfixed, creating new songs, finding some way to pour every emotion into some kind of melody. You’d lost track of the times you’d come downstairs to get a drink, put the washing into the machine and had instead pushed your body into the doorframe, eyes fixed upon your husband as he created the most beautiful sounds. 

The last time you’d done that, his mistress had been present, leaving over the piano as Charles played her an elegant tune. When she had gone to lean over him, her own fingers wanting to press down against the keys, he’d rested a firm hand on her arm, insisting that she sit on the sofa and listen, instead. The sweet moments of silently viewing your husband had turned sour; you’d silently vowed that day you would never enter the room when he was playing again.

You’d broken that promise mere seconds ago, eyes transfixed upon your husband. You can feel the tension beneath his fingers, as if he’s trying to take the sheer thoughts of everything that had been embedded into his mind in the past twenty-four hours and mesh them into some kind of audible release. Underneath the layers of music, your footsteps can’t be heard as you hesitantly walk towards the end of the living space. His tune reaches a climax, but before the piano can take any more notes, you cough lightly, Charles’ hands ceasing in mid-air. Arching his body weight, he sees your frame standing next to his piano, eyes still sleepy from awakening mere moments ago. The breath catches in the back of his throat; did you always look so perfect in his soft jumpers?

“I’m sorry.” He eventually offers, taking in your sweet, soft appearance. “Did I wake you?” 

“No, no.” The reply tumbles from your lips before you even realize. “It was…beautiful, actually. Is it a new piece?” You ask, entranced by the music which had been flowing freely.

“I’m not sure yet.” He can’t help but smile at the end of his sentence. “I just sort of started playing and this is what came of it.” The explanation is valid; like many creatives, sometimes a free flow form was the simplest way to go. His next movement is almost a shock to your system. “Why don’t you come and help me?” The offer is completed when he shuffles up on the piano stool, patting on hand on the available gap. There’s hesitation in your movement, before his hand trails upwards, leaning to clasp one of your own, guiding you towards the stool. 

There’s an overpowering smell of his cologne, a scent you were slowly drawing yourself towards. The body heat from his frame radiates into your own. Shyly, you reach out, pressing down on one of the piano keys, a tone spouting from the instrument. Charles can’t help but smile upon your interaction, eyes questioning as you analyze the instrument.

“Do you know how to play?” He asks gingerly, watching as you shake your head in response. His actions exchange, resting one of his warm palms over your own. The next moments are filled with your husband guiding your hands over the piano, teaching you the tune to old nursery rhymes. When you reach the end of the piece, he cheers in delight at the achievement. 

“Play me something now.” You ask carefully, head becoming heavy, heavy enough to rest on your husband’s shoulder. When you feel his body tense, you immediately sit back up, convinced you’ve overstepped a line. That thought is soon relinquished when Charles’ hand flies out, wrapping around the back of your head and pulling you back down to his shoulder, your breath hot on his neck, it’s enough for him, hesitant to overstep the boundaries you were adamant upon currently. 

His fingers move back, continuing the song he had been conducting earlier. The piece had started out slowly, almost sad-like, before building, building towards a romantic counterpart. In his mind, it was the perfect song to punctuate the relationship he maintained with his wife. They both sat there, barely any moment as the music was the only sound present in their house. 

When the song finishes, neither of you move, relishing in the soft touch you’re both sharing. Charles’ own head falls atop of your own, letting his cheek rest against your hair. There’s no form of time between you both, simply enjoying being alive, alive with one another. It’s interrupted when you feel Charles’ take an exaggerated breath, removing his keys from the piano. One of his hands rests upon his side, the other slides between the minute gap between you both, wrapping a toned arm around your waist. The movement causes you to lift yourself from his firm shoulder, catching those beautiful eyes from your glance. 

“I’m traveling to Monaco tomorrow.” He says it so casually, as if it’s as normal as entering or leaving the building. You can feel his heart race in anticipation of what he was due to say, his body temperature raising dramatically, radiating through his hoodie. You offer him a warming smile. You really didn’t want him to leave, not when you were growing so unnaturally fond of his presence. 

“Oh really, what for?” Is the eventual reply. In this moment, you simply can’t hold his eye contact, he’s staring into your soul, it’s as if he can sense every thought which is currently trekking through your mind; does he know how much of a hold he has on you, even if your marriage was entirely staged, at least in his eyes. 

“I’m off to see my mother” He clarifies. “It’s been a while and I just want to check in.” It’s a lie. You can tell from the way his body language changes; his hands are suddenly clenching tighter, his grip on your waist firm as if he’s terrified, you’ll run away. He can’t admit it, he’s not strong enough. If you step away, he will fall back to the way he was the previous night; eyes bloodshot, unable to sleep unless he knows you’re safe. 

“Give her my best.” The response is blunt, short. You’re on entirely different wavelengths, different planets. He never told you of his reasoning for things; a golden rule you had learnt at the beginning of this era. Just…you’d never question him; you would simply co-exist. What he says next makes your blood run cold. 

“Why don’t you come with me? I’d really appreciate it.” Why on earth would your estranged husband want you to come on his travels, presumably when the entire point was to spend the entirety of it wrapped in the arms of another woman. Yet, a feeling in your stomach settled. Did you actually want to spend hours in this empty house alone? Now that Carlos was no longer a welcome distraction, anything would be better than wallowing in your silence. 

“I will.” You eventually respond. “On one condition.”

“Anything.” His eyes are wide, so willing. He’d scooted tighter towards you, as if he could hold together this entire conversation, stopping the whole world from crumbling around you. You must be the one to take a deep breath this time. You had to remain firm with your choices, with what you needed to know. 

“What was in the white envelope that your mistress gave you yesterday?”

You loved the glow of candlelight. 

Having never entered Charles’ study, his fingers interlocked with your own as he guided you through the heavy door, you didn’t realize how many candles he had resting around his office. They laid upon his windowsill, on his desk, he even had a mulberry-scented candle resting next to his racing simulator. 

There was only one candle which was lit, he had obviously forgotten to extinguish it whilst you were deep in your slumber. Despite the fact you hadn’t ever been given access to this room, you’d have to make a mental note in order to check for any fire hazards the next time you were in the building alone. 

The envelope resting upon the desk stuck out like a sore thumb; his computer, stationary, it was all a cool gray tone whereas the envelope stuck out in a bright white glow. 

“I need you to know before you look at this, it’s a lot worse than it comes across.” Even in the candlelight, his face had turned pale, barely able to keep his fear from dancing across his emotions. You need to remain strong. You need to see what was left in the envelope. 

Staying firm, your grasp reaches out towards the desk, taking the card into your own hands. “I want to see it.” You clarified, letting your finger trace under the flap of the envelope.

You don’t let your husband’s words overpower you, distract you in any way. Instead, your hand reaches into the envelope and grasps around a stack of…something. It feels like multiple pieces of paper pressed together, though one side remains glossy, as if printed onto a special sheet. Hesitantly, your hand pulls from the envelope, eyes immediately widening upon seeing the content in question.

It's photographs. Multiple photographs of Charles and his mistress. Some of them are casual, taken from her phone, smiling selfies and dinner dates. Others are…compromising, verging on pornographic. You can feel the lump in your throat tightening, tears are forming on your lower lash line, but you must keep strong. You cannot show any weakness when you ask to see this.  

“That’s her, isn’t it?” Your voice betrays you, weakening as your words continue. “Your…girlfriend.” You don’t want to use the other word; it’s clear from these photographs it was more than sex, it was more than just an escapade. 

“She’s- she’s not anymore.” Charles pauses, his eyes don’t focus on the photographs, only on you. His wife, who he has hurt so badly and now must see the pain littered across her face. “She hasn’t been since your mother passed away.”

Your heart stops at the mention of your mother, a sharp spike of longing for the woman suddenly danced through your chest. Then, you were angry. How dare he pity you, you didn’t want it, not from him. But…you still wanted him. He’d clouded your emotions, nothing was black-and-white with your husband, just a cacophony of colors. 

“That was your reason for dumping her. Sympathy?” You don’t care how harsh your voice comes across, instead just aggravated you were growing to care about his reasoning. Life had been simpler weeks ago, when you simply stayed at home, minding your own business whilst he got on with his. By the look on Charles’ face, he wasn’t expecting the hostility, either. 

“No! I dumped her because it was wrong, because I have a loving wife who I would give anything for.” The room goes silent, giving you time to process the words that had come from his lips. You had been so certain for so long that he didn’t care about you; that everything he did was for his own gain and pleasure. Yet…he had given up his mistress for you. He’d given up something that made him happy because you were not. 

Stressing, you run a hand through your hair, placing the photographs back into the envelope, speaking to your husband as you place the card back onto his desk. You feel sick. These photographs exist and it was a perfect way to destroy the two of you, it was perfect ammunition to a metaphorical pistol. “So, what does she want you to do with these photographs?”

“Nothing.” Charles leans over your own body, reaching for a second stack of papers resting upon the desk, one you had considered would simply be notes from Scuderia Ferrari. Warm seeps through your body at his close contact, one hand almost trailing against your back as he grasps to the stack of crisp sheets, barely touched.  “She’s threatened to publish them if I don’t sign…this.” 

You took the stack of ivory papers into your palms. It was sprawled with a size twelve font, you were uncertain of where to begin until two words in bold took your attention, printed formally across the top of the page. 

“Divorce Papers.” Your voice is barely a whisper, heart dropping to your stomach. 

“That’s the other reason I’m going to Monaco.” He’s explaining his own status now, eyes glassy with the fear of you walking straight out of the office. He wouldn’t blame you, of course. He couldn’t blame you for anything anymore. Charles reaches out to your grasp, wiggling the paper from your fingers and placing them back against the desk.  “I’m filing for a lawsuit against her, a restraining order for manipulation and stalking.” 

A scoff falls from your lips; the mere contrast of the events from a few weeks ago compared to now. He truly intended to file a lawsuit against a woman who he’d happily let warm his bed whilst you went to bed each night with nothing but regret and bloodshot eyes. “Do you…do you want a divorce?” You can feel your voice cracking. “I mean, if she’s sent you these, you must have mentioned wanting one-”

“I did.” Charles doesn’t miss a beat. “I mentioned how I didn’t want a divorce because despite everything…I do care for you.” The room goes silent, not even the flickering of the candle or the soft wind from the French windows can pierce the tone of the room. 

A huff escapes your lips, arms resting by your side as you formulate a response; “You had a really weird way of showing it.” Your response is blunt, it clearly warrants the sad look on your husband’s face. 

“I know. That’s why I’m going to make it right. Please come to Monaco with me. She won’t be there; you don’t have to come to the lawyer with me. But…I need to be able to come back to my wife.” His hand reaches out, cradling your own in this moment. Gently, he lifts your palm to his cheek, resting it upon his stubble and letting his lips trace a kiss across the soft skin. 

He truly does know how to make your heart flutter, despite everything. 

“Okay.” You eventually respond, focused on his gaze when his eyes turn wide in anticipation. 

“Yeah?” His heart is picking up in happiness, reaching to hold you in his own grasp, but instead falling short when you raise a finger, ceasing his movements towards your body. 

“But…you need to give me tonight, alone. To process that.” Gently, you take a step forward, leaning gently towards him. You can’t leave him, not before you gently press a kiss to his cheek, turning on your heel, your figure illuminated in the corridor by the soft candlelight. “Goodnight, Charles.”

“Goodnight, beautiful.” 

You loved the feeling of warm water.

There is only a slender picking of moments in your life where you have felt truly relaxed; sitting by the lake in the rolling fields your family had owned for generations, lounging in the bed of the Madrid-Based apartment your friends had hired for a holiday in the early spring morning. 

You had never thought one of those relaxing moments would be as your mother-in-law massaged her hands through your locks, lathering an expensive shampoo into the roots of your hair. She was gentle; no tangles fell through her fingers as her rhythm stayed perfectly relaxing, hitting all the spots which would send a flood of relief through your scalp. 

You’d arrived in Monaco early that morning, immediately being transported to the luxurious hotel your husband had booked you into. Most of the trips he’d book you wouldn’t attend, and when you did would be ignored by him altogether. This time, he’d remained present, willing. Your hands had entwined the moment you had left the privacy of the jet, nestling into the back of the car, eyes heavy from the early rise.

Not much is remembered after you’d arrived outside the opulent building; bags were removed and transported to your room by the bellhop, both you and your husband were given hotel cards, an older lady at the desk explaining the functions dotted around the high-end establishment. All you could remember was the door to the room opening, your tired body making a beeline towards the emperor bed, nuzzling into the soft furnishings with sleep overtaking you in a matter of moments. 

Charles hadn’t been able to help the tug on his heartstrings as he’d seen you tumble into the mattress. You’d been so thoughtful; dropping everything back at your house and accompanying him to Monaco, promising to be there for him as he promised to fix the wounds from his previous mistakes. He’d give anything to crawl into the bed alongside you, wrap his frame around your own and fall back into his own slumber, one he had despised the night before simply because he wasn’t able to hold you in his arms. He was learning to respect your wishes; after all, he had a lot of repairing to do-so. Even after recent conversations with his Ferrari counterpart, he could never bring himself to hate you. 

His phone buzzes from his back pocket and upon inspection he sees the reminder, he’s due with his lawyer in less than forty-five minutes, but he doesn’t want to leave you, not alone. A thought sparks into his head, fingers flying through his contacts and dropping a message to one, asking if they could take you over to his mother’s salon later in the afternoon. By the time he’s returned from changing in the en-suite and brushing a comb through his hair, the responses from both Joris and his mother had lit up his screen, confirming his plans for later in the afternoon. 

Your husband had allowed himself one more look at you, so peaceful wrapped up in the comfort of the bed. Silently, he leans over your frame, running a gentle hand across the back of your head, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your forehead, murmuring his sweet words to your sleeping form.

When you’d awoken, there was a message clarifying that Joris would be taking you to his mother’s salon a little later and he would come to collect you once he was finished with his lawyer. That’s how you had ended up walking into her salon earlier that afternoon, her delighted smile present after seeing her daughter-in-law.

Pascale wasn’t stupid, that much was clear. She was aware of the strain in her middle son’s marriage, just not to the extent that he had been toying with a mistress for the better part of a year. However, she had grown to adore you; your mannerisms, laughter and the fact that you clearly held a candle for Charles, despite the dwindling flame of the marriage. If she had a daughter, she’d want her to be just like you. 

“Are you and Charles up to anything this evening?” Her voice is gentle, motioning for you to stand up from the basin chair and walk towards the mirrors, resting yourself in one of the seats. Your reflection bores back into you, focused as Pascale adjusts your head slightly, brushing the tendrils of hair through her comb. 

“I’m not sure.” You respond. “I know he has some business this morning.” It’s an understatement. When Joris had collected you from the hotel, he’d tried to give you what information he could – Charles had arrived at his Lawyer’s office, ready to file the case against his mistress. He wasn’t too sure how long it was going to take, though he had told Joris to be on hand for anything you needed when he couldn’t. 

“You make him happy; you know?” Pascale mentions, tilting your head to angle your hair correctly. “I know he hasn’t always been…the greatest.” You’re not sure if she’s aware of everything, but her tone seems to stand where you need it to do so, “but you make…such an impact in his life.” 

Not much else is said whilst the woman continues to trim your hair, adjusting your face as she does so. It was nice, not to be cooped up into a hotel room for the entirety of the day, nor to be sitting in Charles’ driver room whilst he walked around, finger entwined with his mistress. You’re so engrossed in Pascale drying your hair, setting the locks into soft rollers that you don’t realize when the door chimes open, another figure entering the quiet salon. The woman’s eyes brighten, and you hear her cooing before your own face turns, taking in the figure of your husband in the doorway. 

Charles looks breath-taking. He’d clearly showered and changed since you had last seen him bundled in his travel gear that morning. Your deduction would be correct; the man had hastily returned to the hotel to jump into the shower, changing into a power blue shirt and white trousers. His hair, free of styling products curled in an unruly way, one that made his whole face structure elevate. 

In his hands, he held both a soft white dress over his arm, one you had packed in your case fleetingly the evening before; it had been steamed and washed, the fabric clear and petticoats of the skirt floating gently. In his other hand, a vibrant bouquet of roses. His smile never faded, walking over to his mother and pressing a kiss to each of his mother’s cheeks. Once his attention turns towards you, his eyes only brighten. 

“Hello, beautiful.” You can’t tell whether he’s playing up the affection in front of his mother, or whether it’s genuine. However, when one hand comes to rest on your cheek, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. He’s being respectful; making sure not to cross a boundary. 

“Hello, handsome.” The response falls from your lips without realizing, the grin on your husband's face only rising. Fuck. Did you mean to say that? Regardless, you had done, and by the look on his face he not only didn’t expect it but had instantly grown to love it. Charles had completely forgone the flowers in his grasp, only remembering them after your eyes had darted down towards his palms. 

“Oh-“ His mind finally catches up with the present situation, raising his hand to present you with the flowers. They’re colors are soft, delicate, as if etched by crayon. You can’t help but smile at the gesture, even if it was entirely a false pretense in front of his mother. You can’t see her face, but you know she’s smiling, seeing her son present to his wife in such a sweet manner. Now, your gaze isn’t fixed against the flowers in your grasp, but the dress from your suitcase.

“Something tells me that won’t fit you, Charles.” You tease the garment laying over his forearm, only to cause a smile to appear on his lips again. 

“I want to take you out for the afternoon. If that’s okay with you.” His voice is low now, hoping to avoid any prying of the conversation from his mother, though her attention was now turned to locating the hair dryer, still needing to complete your own treatment. “Would that be…okay?” He’s nervous. Fearful that after everything, you could now reject him and feel no remorse.

You’re not a cruel person, it has never been in your nature. Instead, you match his own smile, nodding as you take the garment from his grasp, Charles’ eyes widening in confirmation. 

“Trust you to pick out my favorite dress, too.” You mumbled. 

You loved the sound of the ocean. 

You loved everything about the sea, truly. The reflections from the moonlight caused shards to reflect over Charles’ boat; the new yacht had barely had time to stretch the waters, though it seemed to float as if it had been nurtured its entire existence. 

The afternoon of a late lunch had expanded into expensive, late-night wine on the boat as your husband had guided you into deeper waters. He knew what he was doing, after all; the waters of Monaco were a comfort to him, a lifetime had stretched out from jumping into the ocean as a child to yacht parties during the Grand Prix. 

You’d seemed entirely at home, and it made his heart warm. Charles wasn’t a stupid man; he saw how you kept yourself small, your setup at the house barely spanning over two rooms. He’d wanted nothing more than to break the walls you had put up for oh-so-long and entwine your lives together.

Then he would reprimand himself, remind himself he was the sole reason those walls existed. 

Conversation had spanned naturally into the events of the day; you thanked him for thinking of you, he’d responded with a mention of you deserving that form of treatment every single day. Your mind can’t take the anticipation; when your lips lift from the glass of wine, you can’t help but ask what his lawyer had recommended about his mistress. Your husband’s grin had fallen a little, running a hand through his dark curls. 

“It’s a difficult one.” He explains. “There’s enough there for a case, considering we haven’t had contact in a while. But…” He doesn’t need to finish his sentence; you do for him. 

“The photographs are counted as evidence.” You finish, and he can only nod. He’s created such a mess, something he could never forgive himself for doing so. A web of lies and mistreatment surrounded you both; he so wanted to break each thread and simply cradle you, be in a bubble for the rest of eternity. 

He’s expecting you to stay silent, then. Maybe that’s where the evening should have ended, with silence upon the realization that this case will not be easily solved. Instead, you place the glass of wine down on the ledge of the stairs, easing his own glass from his grasp. Charles is confused, even more so when you walk back towards him, wrapping your arms to close around his neck. 

“What are you doing?” He whispers. His hands raise hesitantly, as if touching you would break you into a million pieces. His grasp only falls to your waist when you press closer towards the man, resting your gaze on his own eyes. He’s hurt you, broken you to such an extent, and yet you can’t help but draw closer to his touch, to his eyes. 

“Being your wife.” You respond, before pressing your lips to his own. This is the first time, the first time in so long that you had been the one to initiate a kiss. Naturally, Charles’ hands wrap tighter around your waist, pulling you into his chest, deepening your touch, your kiss. This. This is the moment he wishes to bottle forever, to live in the comfort of his wife’s touch, no outside means, no other commitments being hung over his head. 

You’re not sure how long you both stand there, wrapped in one another, hands fleeting over each other, desperate to find some touch, some form of skin. It isn’t until your fingers reach to unbutton the top of his powder-blue shirt, that his own come to rest atop of yours. He knows he’s made a mistake when he sees the look you shoot him, immediately assuming the worst. 

“No, no.” He promises, both hands flying from where they had grasped yours, cradling each side of your face. It feels…warm. It feels so similar to the way Carlos had cradled your head once, when you were both on a boat, much like this. You think of those dark eyes, the whispers drawn into your ear as he had sharply thrusted into you that evening. Then, you think of the blonde appearing outside his apartment mere hours after you had been tangled in his arms. 

“I want to.” Charles’ words draw you from your endless train of thoughts. “Sweetheart, I want to more than anything, but I need you to know how much it means-“

You don’t let him finish; instead, you press your mouths back together, forcefully. There are whispers from your own lips, pleading that he take you, that you want nothing more than to feel your bodies atop of one another. 

And who is he to deny his wife? 

You’re not sure when he scoops you up into his arms, guides you inside of the boat and to the soft bed that had been freshly made mere hours ago, but he never lets your lips leave one another for less than a moment.

He’s everywhere; he’s pressing into you in the most delicious way, he’s drawing your body of the most intense sounds, and then you’re coming, harder than you ever thought was possible, it hits you in the most delicious way. 

Your fingernails pressed crescents into his skin as he continued to push into you with that perfect rhythm. Feeling your hot breath dance against the shell of his neck, the sweet whimpers of your overstimulated orgasm falling from your lips. Charles feels you clench around him, dragging you into him deeper, and it's all over.

His head immediately falls into the joint of your neck and shoulder, his pants getting heavier, thrusts rougher as he chases his own release. Teeth escape from his lips, biting down atop of the red marks he'd left earlier in a passion; the gasp you let-out, the roll of your hips against his own pushes him over the edge, a moan falling out from his own lips, hands flying to grip at your forearms pinned above him. You can feel every inch of him buried inside of you, warmth spilling into you.

Heavy hips press into yours, your thighs still pressed around his waist when he lifts his head from the warmth of your skin, pressing one final deep kiss to your lips, a profanity of words escaping from his mouth.

He kisses you again. And again. He keeps doing it whilst slowly rocking his hips, still jittering from his own orgasm. Senses come through, those eyes you had been entranced in so many times fixing to your own, drinking you in, looking so beautiful underneath his own frame.

"You still want somebody else?" The teasing is natural, almost, inflicting you to roll your eyes and playfully push his arm. God, your laugh is the most adoring sound in the world to him, it had been so long since he'd heard it, even then, it had never been due to his own actions until recently. The adorned look in his eye is soon replace with confusion when he feels you wiggle underneath him, soft blankets rubbing against your back.

"Are you going somewhere?" He questions, one hand coming up to trace against your jawline. You want to lean into his touch, it's something you'd been attracted to recently, though the mess between your legs and sweat trailing down your skin seemed to tell you something different.

"I need to clean up." You whine, pressing your body into the plush mattress. "I'm all gooey, Charles."

"I've got it." He murmurs, pressing one soft kiss to your cheek, another to your neck. You expect the weight from above to release you, but the warmth radiating from his body remains. You feel lips trace against your chest, his untamed curls tickle your stomach as he traces down a direct line.

"What are you doi-" You never get to finish you question, the fourth word cut off with a soft gasp, those lips which had pressed to yours, now pressing down against your clit, a soft praise towards your body whilst his tongue traced around the sensitive bud, drawing a slice through your wet lips, pressing deeper and deeper into your entrance.

The room is illuminated with your whines, hips bucking against his stubble as he fulfills his promise of cleaning you up.

You loved the feeling of being held.

You’d been unfathomably happy to walk into the paddock that evening, fingers interlaced with Charles’ as he guided the two of you through the fans and photographers alike, buzzing to be starting on Pole Position when his wife would be watching in awe of his achievement. 

You hadn’t been there on qualifying day; you were still trying to keep your distance where you could, to prove to your husband he couldn’t instantly win you back overnight. It had only been when he’d come into the en-suite of your room the evening before, hands wrapped around your waist as he pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, pleading you came to watch him race the following night.

“I’ll win.” He promises, voice quiet as he rests his chin on your shoulder. “I’ll win it for you.” 

His sweet words had not only lured you to the race track the following day but had also drawn you to sleep in his bed that evening, curled up into his toned chest as he murmured words of appreciation in French; only a few you were able to pick up and understand the meaning of as you drifted into a comfortable sleep, arms cradling your body underneath the bed sheets.

There was a collective, loving aura that evening when the two of you had stepped into his garage, the team in awe of seeing that their Prince of Monaco and his beloved Princess had been reunited, here to support one another. However, one figure remained quiet, eyes transfixed on your every movement. He felt his knuckles turn white when Charles had changed into his race suit, placing his cap atop of your own head and had lovingly pressed two kisses to either of your cheeks.

Carlos Sainz was a jealous man; he’d been infuriated when his blonde fling had appeared on his doorstep, instantly realizing the kind of man he must have been made out to be when you’d seen her appear on your departure. He’d hoped and prayed you hadn’t seen her, but from the radio silence he received over messages and calls, to the way you had purposely avoided speaking to him when arriving in the paddock, he could tell you were not that naive.

Emotions had played a heavy part on both of the Ferrari Pilots during the start of the race. One, determined to keep his promise and win whilst his wife was present. The other was so clouded with sadness and rage that all he wanted to do was push his counterpart off the track. The lights snapped off, 20 engines revving in unison as the cars blitzed down the first straight. 

It doesn’t take long for emotion to overcome; Charles’ P6 soon creeps towards a P3, whilst Carlos begins to drop. A violent turn into Oscar Piastri not only takes the young rookie out of the race, but the Ferrari driver, too. Nobody misses the swears as he switches the engine off, nor the scowl on his face as he removes the steering wheel, ready to be escorted back to the garage. 

When the blur of red comes through the paddock, you can’t help but feel guilty, telling yourself that if you had spoken to him, he would have been able to keep a cool head. Silently, you slip the headphones from your temple, murmuring about going to the bathroom before taking a direct beeline towards Carlos’ room, catching the door just before it’s due to slam closed. 

He was seething. Pure rage flicked across his eyes; the warm smile reserved for you replaced with a harsh scowl. This may have been a mistake. 

“What do you want?” His words are venom, spit towards you. He cannot stand to see you right now.

“I just-“You pause, clearing your throat. “I wanted to check if you were okay.” It’s a pathetic answer, really. One that didn’t sit right in your mouth, even after you had spoken. 

“I’m alright?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “You ignore my calls, go away and fuck that pathetic man and then come back to me?” He’s pissed, undoubtedly so. “You whore. I understand it all now.” He shakes his head, missing the fire which had begun to burn in your own stomach. 

“You have no right!” You’d shrieked so loudly you’d startled yourself; one finger was still pointed into his infuriated face, your finger mere millimeters from the bridge of his nose. Hot air engulfed both of your bodies, the only sound present was the deep and heavy breathing flaring from your nostrils. 

Without a thought, Carlos had slapped your finger away from his face, lunging forward dramatically to seize your face into his rough palms. His lips are on yours, roughly seeking the wet trace of your tongue. You can’t fight him; not when his lips feel so flawless against your own. A rough palm encases the back of your neck, the other wrapping around your waist as he holds your frame tighter against his own. 

Your breath barely had a moment to catch when he forcefully pulled his lips from you, emitting a white from your breath. That innocent sound is soon replaced by a sharp gasp, his fingers tightening against your scalp, pulling on your locks. 

“Don’t fucking whine.” He spits, ghosting his lips over your own, never letting them touch yours. Warm breath tickles the shell of your ear when his grip pulls tighter onto your hair, tiling your ear to meet his mouth. “I’m sick of your whining, about your horrible excuse for a husband. I will treat you how you should be treated.”

There’s no time to react as his pink tongue pokes from his lips, a stripe tracing from the corner of your ear, across the sweetest spot of your neck. You’re reveling in the wetness, the sinful way his words litter through the air before teeth sink into your skin. He doesn’t bother to cover your mouth, mute the sweet sounds falling from your lips. There’s no decency anymore, Carlos doesn’t care who sees the marks he engraves into your skin. The ring on your left hand means nothing more than a reminder that he could be better. 

“Carlos-“ You struggle to connect the two syllables together, hands gripping through his hair, pulling at the brown locks in your fingers. “Fuck-“ 

“What did I just say?” He grunts from the valley of your neck, one hand sliding from your waist and flying out, smacking on your clothed butt. The shock simply causes you to gasp out loud, pushing your own throbbing crotch into his hard one. A smirk forms against your neck, clear as day when the man pulls himself from your neck. His lips are wet, saliva from his own mouth tracing around your lips. 

One hand finds your face again, grasping at your chin tilting your head backwards to hover below his own. A single finger taps at your lips, signaling for you to open wide for him. He’s sinful as he lets his spit fall across your lips, eyebrows raised as he wraps a hand around your throat, clearly overpowering your stance in this moment.

“Swallow.” He commands, hand resting on your cheek firmly. The tone of his voice sends a shock of energy down your chest and between your legs, cunt throbbing at his words. Of course, you comply, swallowing the remanence he had given you. “Good girl.” 

The sweet nicknames in this moment have evaporated; Carlos is nothing short of animalistic, his presence all too understanding as one hand takes its place around your neck, the other grabbing firmly onto your wrist as he guides you backwards, softly falling onto the sofa of his driver’s room. The pitying looks the man gives you sends a thousand messages through your brain. 

“No, no. Dirty little girls don’t get to sit on my sofa.” He teases, both hands clasping your waist, sliding you off the plush furnishings and resting on the cold floor, kneeling for the Spaniard. “You need to be on your knees, you need to be taught how to behave.” 

Eyes widen as his tanned fingers pull at the knotted arms of the fireproofs resting on his waist. Even through his underclothes, the shape of his hard length is clearly visible, even more so as he removes his underlayers and briefs, letting himself spring freely, one hand rubbing his shaft a few times, the other knotting in the back of your hair. 

He loves this; cock in his hand as he taps the tip against each of your cheeks, trailing himself against the parting of your lips, having to hide the shiver from his own body when the wetness of your mouth. His eyes are sparkling when he uses his firm cock to press through your mouth, relishing in the warmth of your lips wrapping around his length. 

“That’s it, be a good girl. Take it.” He coos as you struggle to take more of his length, attempting to give small, tentative licks to his cock whilst he slides between your lips. It sends him feral, wild. He thinks of nothing else as both hands grip tightly in your hair, shoving your face into his crotch, your gags music to his ears as he continues to take control of the situation.

When your eyes adjust, look up from his groin, he almost feels sorry for you. They’re wide, glassy, snuffles falling from your lips as he continues his forceful attack. One hand slowly removes itself from the strain on your locks, tracing over your cheek, thumb rubbing underneath your eye, removing the salty tears as your breath remains heavy through your nose. 

“Oh, poor baby.” He teases, pace never relenting. “This is what you need, someone to put you in your place, remind you what you deserve for teasing me, making me jealous.” He can’t help but chuckle at the pathetic sound coming from your lips. He can feel his stomach tightening, the warmth drawing an imminent release from his cock. This isn’t how he wants to finish, he can’t yet. 

Your mouth feels empty when he pulls out, giving you no warning, the gasps falling from your lips at the sudden gain of air. He doesn’t give you time to respond, a heavy hand pushing your front to the floor, lifting your hips, ass straight back in the air. No warning, the skirt of your dress is lifted, the wetness of your cunt seeping through your panties. The anticipation kills you, until a warm finger slides into your folds with no warning. Your body can’t help but react, clenching around the warmness without even realizing. You also don’t realize the sounds you’re making, until the finger removes itself, a palm harshly smacking on your behind. 

“What did I say about noises?” He grunts, leaning around to push the wet finger into your own mouth. “Do you like it? Taste what I do to you?” Hurriedly, he presses his finger in and out of your lips a few times before returning it to your wet hole, wiggling in the air. This time there’s two; stretching you out, your palms trying to find anything to grip, to hold on to as he carelessly thrusted, tickling a sweet, sweet spot deep in your stomach. 

“I- Carlos I can’t-“ You whine through raspy breaths. He can feel you clenching, swelling around his fingers, and is rewarded when he hastily pulls them out of you, a long moan and a squirt of arousal pushing from your cunt. A sheer shock of arousal floods between his own legs, rubbing his fingers against your wet folds, letting your wetness trail onto the tips of his hand.

“Oh, your husband can’t make you do that, can he?” He’s proud; proud he’s able to draw such a reaction from your body. “Come on, baby, up we get.” His arms are suddenly firm, present around your waist as he pulls you to stand on two shaky legs, still reveling in the feeling he had granted you moments ago. 

Hands retract from your waist and come to hold your face, pressing kisses to your scarlet lips as he guides you from a standing position towards his couch, finally allowing himself to sink into the cushions. You want nothing more than to join him, feel his warmth and aura around your own body, but by the finger he’s raised as he situates himself into the sofa, you can tell you’ll have to wait. 

The moment he sits down, a tanned hand comes to his crotch to rub his length a few times, your eyes widening as you plead for it; mind clouded by lust, all you want is for something warm to fill you up, make you feel as good as he had done so many times before. Carlos’ finger beckons for you to join him, and you know what he’s insinuating. 

Your movements are commanded by the Spaniard; immediately, there are two firm hands on your body, pulling you into his touch and sinking you down onto his cock. You don’t miss the way his lips quirk into a grin, oh-so-happy to see your reaction to the pleasure he had granted you. It’s no match for when he starts moving, bouncing you up and down on his lap, fallen gasps from your lips as your faces draw closer and closer.

You were sinking into one another’s skin; he wanted nothing more than to entwine your bodies for eternity. One hand was firm around your waist, guiding your movement with the strength only he could. The other guided a gentle trace across your face, pulling you closer, closer to his own face as his thrusts got faster, erratic. 

“You’re mine.” He grunts, never once breaking eye contact as his hips grew tighter, his cock making your cunt squeeze in a way you didn’t know was physically possible. “You’ve always been mine, tell me you’re mine.”

His eyes go soft, thrusts pausing for a second as he notes the tears pooling in your eyes from the sheer euphoria running through your body. A whine falls from your lips as you feel his strong hand tug at your neck, pressing your foreheads towards one another, hips slowing for just a moment, letting your breath catch up to your aching body. 

“I’m yours.” You’d whisper, mind clouded. You were his. There could be a thousand cars, an ocean or a wedding band between the two of you and you would still always find your way back to Carlos. Whatever that relationship would form, you would always be a part of him. 

The murmured confirmation was enough to send a shot of energy through his spine, his thrusting becoming deeper, passionate. It barely takes five thrusts before he’s groaning, throwing his head back and letting out a low moan as he spills himself into you. The warmth is enough to send your cunt into flutters, clenching so tightly as your body falls into his chest, whining as you feel a gush of wetness drip onto his crotch. 

Undoubtedly, Carlos Sainz is now a part of you. Time seems to flicker between seconds and minutes, at some point you’ve shifted your weight, turning around to fix your eyes onto the television screen of his room, eyes wide as you watch your husband continue to battle out on the track. It felt almost sinful; watching Charles battle for his podium whilst his teammate stayed buried inside of you. 

His touch goes soft; one hand remains tight around your waist, though your back is warmed by the way you’re pulled back into his skin. Feather-Light kisses dance across your shoulder, he’s never been this soft, cradling you as if the world would be held together by your content. If the universe was to implode, he would be happy with the fact you were pressed into him in that very moment. 

The laps of the race begin to dwindle; a promising second-place is looking pretty much secured for Charles. You’re certain that your silver trophy will be sitting proudly in the hotel room later that evening, until Max Verstappen suddenly begins to slow down, commentators beginning to roar as an unexpected engine issue splutters into the RB19. 

“Holy shit.” Carlos murmurs, sitting up from his relaxed position, both arms now tightly around your waist as he shifts the balance of your bodies. “What happened to Max?” His voice becomes a murmur, your attention drifts, focused on the cars beginning to pick up their speed against the current world champion. 

Goosebumps litter your skin, you immediately pull away from the warmth of Carlos, eyes wide as you see the scarlet red car glide into view. He’s going to overtake Max. Not only that, but your husband is about to win the entire race. 

An audible groan comes from both of you when you slip yourself off his length, searching around for the panties which had been discarded oh-so-long ago; the man rests a hand on your shoulder, one hand tracing across your jawline as the other reaches down, gently smoothing the skirt of your long dress. 

“We’ll find them later. We need to go and congratulate your husband, after all.” You can’t miss the cockiness in his voice, still content with the fact his cum is buried deep inside your pussy, panties are left in his driver’s room as a sheer prize for being able to make you feel euphoric. A tinted blush decorates your cheeks as he slips into his old jeans and a Ferrari polo shirt, one hand resting on the small of your back as he guides you out of his driver’s room, never once bothering to fix his hair when you had been the one to grab onto it so tightly.

People wouldn’t think that of him, after all. 

You love to be loved. 

Your eyes are brimming with tears as you reach Parc Fermé, Carlos finally catching up with you, standing right behind you at the barrier, eyes transfixed onto his teammate, standing atop of his livery, cheering towards the endless roars of the crowd, passing a congratulatory message towards his fellow drivers, Lewis patting his back, Lando cheering on his behalf.

He’s already removed his helmet when he sprints towards his team; the losses don’t matter, not when he can celebrate the win he had been craving for so, so long. There are praises passed, pats on the back as he works his way down the winding line of his team, red in their clothes and their cheeks, it means the world to everybody. 

And then, Charles is facing you, his wife. He’s so transfixed upon your gaze, the sheer elation you have for his victory that he doesn’t stop to think when he takes two of his hands on either side of your face, cradling your cheeks as he presses his lips to yours, grinning into such a sweet kiss that you can’t help but kiss him back. 

“I told you.” He whispers when he pulls away from you, resting a gentle hand on your cheek for just a moment. His eyes finally turned to where his teammate was standing. Both of them have to forge a smile as they reach out to clasp hands, a firm grip in celebration of scoring points for their team. 

You don’t see him again, not until he’s left the cool-down room and is bounding towards the podium. Carlos, having not been called to his post-race interview yet, still stood behind you, though one hand had snaked its way around your waist, as if it had to be there. Nobody notices, of course. The team is too focused upon their driver lifting his golden trophy, in awe of the achievement they had built for seemingly the entire season.

Charles doesn’t miss it, of course. Maybe that’s why his gaze is so fixed on you when he releases a splash of champagne, purposely aiming his bottle towards the man behind you, his heart only crushing further when he sees the Spaniard pull your frame behind his own in protection. 

And then, it’s all over. Both Carlos and Charles are rushed away to complete their post-race interviews. You’re left alone, simply taking a slow walk towards the Ferrari Hospitality. Even as you pace through the crowds, you can’t help but feel…sick. Dizzy. Out-of-body. 

You cared for your husband greatly, and somewhere during it all, you believed his apology was genuine, that he truly wanted to fix the previous mistakes of the year. But how long would his tether last until his mistress came trailing back, regardless of a court ruling?

And Carlos. The sweet man who had proved to you time and time again, you were worth more than a simple name on a piece of paper. He’d been your soul, you truly were set to drop an entire marriage to live in his arms until his blonde counterpart came along, a knife to the chest after one of the most intimate nights you could fathom. 

Your breathing gets faster, the world begins to turn on an axis. From somewhere, you hear a voice asking if you’re okay, if you need help getting back to the hospitality. And then, the world goes black, your body slumps to the floor of the paddock, with only one sentence drifting through your unconscious mind.

Who do you love? 

This is everyone who asked to be tagged! @Mac-daddy-210 @aundercover @barnestatic @omgsuperstarg @chimchimjiminie16 @caelum-the-part-time-nihilist @magicalcowboyarbiter @gaslasysblog @junetto @beatrizmel-472 @motorsp0rt @crowdthena @screemqueen @lewislvr @styles-sunflower @itspaddockprincess @adeptustemptations @amalialeclerc @meetmyblondemuffins @formulanando @lorarri @christianpulisic10 @gaypoetsblog @thisbitxhs-blog @goldsainz @ru-kru @magical-spit @hrlzy @nooshytushie @gaslysainz @marvel-at-stucky @sugarvibez @adeptustemptations @roseseraj @leclercdream @pjofics @hecatesfavoritechild @poseforme @thisbitxhs-blog @adalynneva @meganlikes2purr @sabrinaselina55 @laneyspaulding19 @heavenlyiecreature @pink-teddy-bear @nooshytushie @strawberries-and-racing @milasexutoire @ohthemisssery @florkt @obsessedwiththeideaofyou @ru-kru @myhomeworksnotdone @ineedafictionalman @bregarc @allywthsr @summerslike11 @wildcupcake @willowpains @marlenamallowan @leclercloml @katzenwahnsinn @be-your-coffee-pot

[piratesfromspace]

Just Like Old Times PART 2 (Price x Reader + poly141)

Pairing: Reader x Price + Reader x 141 Rated: Explicit Word count: 4.3k Summary: Some flirting, hot springs, a cosy cottage in the snow, and lots of sex Note: This is the part 2 I promise with lots of smut, enjoy!

Content: ex-military!fem!reader, mention of food & alcohol, smoking, praise kink, heavy smut, fivesome, oral, PiV, light ass play, overstimulation, dom/sub vibes, aftercare, fluff

MASTERLIST // PART 1

It doesn’t happen this very night, but the day after. 

The men are a little bit more rested after their long trek out in the open, and they are all very enthusiastic when you suggest a short hike to reach the hot springs hidden in a small valley just east of your cottage. It’s too remote from the touristy locations for random people to show up there, or for amateur hikers to stumble upon by accident. You’ll be alone and safe. And warm - most importantly. And it’s also a convenient opportunity to see them half naked. 

The hot springs are tucked against the side of a small glade, where the snow melts to reveal rocky arrangements forming shallow pools. Steam hovers above the clear water, signaling its warmth. The afternoon is sunny enough to make the snow gleam, painting a decor so pretty even the rugged men around you remark on it.

“Gosh lass, you didn’t lie when you told us about this place” Soap’s voice shakes you out of your contemplation. 

“Hope you don’t mind but I did not bring a bathing suit for our snow trip” Gaz is already stripping down, ready to dive into the steaming water. You take a beat too long to respond, mouth open at the vision of Gaz’s very naked and very ripped chest, muscles of his back rippling as he’s trying to remove his boots as quickly as he can. 

“Don’t you worry, she’s seen a lot worse back in the days”. It’s Price who comes to your rescue, a mischievous glint in his deep blue eyes fixed on your face. Warmth pricks at your cheeks - and it’s not because of the springs. It’s true though, you’ve seen quite a lot of men in all states of undress during your previous life. Missions after missions after training sessions after stays in the infirmary, you all tend to lose any sense of modesty. A body is a body after all. Just that. You repeat yourself as you undress as well - still, you intend on keeping the two-piece bathing suit you put on under your winter gear before leaving. You also try to keep your eyes down as the men strip and sink in one of the natural pools with satisfied grunts bordering on moans. Their sinful sounds don’t help with the warmth already creeping up your face. 

The steam covering the surface and the warping of the water does a good enough job at hiding the most intimate parts of their bodies. It’s not enough to hide how massive their bodies are though. You catch the glimpse of reddish or silvery scars on a muscular back or on a corded forearm. Dark hairs are dusted on the large pectorals of Price and Soap, while Gaz and Ghost are more smooth. 

Ghost has kept his usual facemask, even though he traded the skull mask for a printed balaclava, with a wider opening, framing doe-like brown eyes looking intently at you under blond lashes. He’s the biggest of them all - and it’s saying something considering Price and the two younger soldiers are far from small men - the level of the water had visibly raised when he lowered himself into the shallow pool. He beacons you with a nod of his head, and you finally muster enough courage to remove the last of your garment - except for your bathing suit - and join them in the water. They’re nice enough to not make any comment on your choice of covering yourself while they are shameless in their nudity.

The enveloping warmth of the spring is a blessing for your body, immediately soothing the goose bumps you got from the cold. You let yourself relax until the little waves are lapping at your nape, free of the hair you carefully tied up earlier. Your whole body goes slack as you take deep breaths, and close your eyes, sun rays lazily kissing the skin of your face. On your right, Price is doing the same, and when you readjust your posture, your arm brushes against his, and then your thigh touches his leg. You don’t move away though, you both stay like that for a moment, the joyful chatting of Soap and Gaz on the other side of the pool, a surprisingly relaxing background noise. The simple contact with his skin is warming you up from the inside, the memory of the kiss he gave you last night making you unconsciously squirm against him, clenching your thighs together. You’re feeling… hot. And the temperature of the water is not the only thing to blame. 

“Stop it, love.” the warning is uttered in a low gravelly voice, that does the exact contrary of what it was intended for. Liquid heat blooms between your legs as Price pairs his remark with a solid hand catching your right knee, immobilizing your whole leg. 

“Stop it, or I will be tempted to catch on all the time we missed.” It’s still a warning, but definitely not a threat, his voice goes gentler, almost sad at the last words. Fuck. That’s what did it a decade earlier, what made you cave in to your attraction for this man, the intoxicating mix of confidence - in his skills and authority - and vulnerability - emotions and kindness just bubbling under the surface. 

You can’t let this chance slip. Not again. Last night, you stopped at kissing, even though you wanted more, and you’ve been desperately horny since. You catch his hand on your knee, guiding it higher along your thigh, until it reaches the hem of your bathing suit. “What if I don’t mind it?” you whisper back, angling your body to better face him.

You can see the internal fight on Price’s face. 

“They will see” he mumbles, looking above your shoulders to the three men chatting just a few feets away. 

“I also don’t mind that…” you answer against the side of his head, pushing the words out before you chickens out  “... do you?”.

“I did not remember you to be such a menace” he chuckles darkly, before one arm snakes around your waist and lifts you up so you’re fully braced against his side. His other hand dips under the band of your bottom to cup your cunt. Your lips part around a gasp. His skin is somehow even hotter than the water. The hand on your back climbs until it clasps on your nape, bending your head in the crook of his neck, at a not-so-successful attempt at muffling your sounds. 

The captain waits for you to settle before he dips the pads of his fingers between your folds, grazing at your entrance where they meet the sirupy evidence of your desire. The tranquil water is not enough to wash away the sticky liquid, and Price takes advantage of it to glide effortlessly up your slit until he finds your aching clit. You stifle another gasp when he starts rubbing it in slow circles. 

“Quiet love” He squeezes your neck, trying to remind you of your surroundings - and especially of your audience. You don’t dare look behind you, but you can imagine how you look. For Price’s men, it must look like he has you in a tight hug, which is telling already. But if you start moaning on top of that, it’s not gonna look like a chaste hug for long. 

It’s difficult not to though, because the length of you is plastered against his formidable body, your tits pressed on his chest, he has you straddling one of his thighs, and you can feel his hard dick pulsing against your leg. Your teeth bite into your lower lip in an attempt at staying silent, and you would be scared to draw blood if you weren’t too far gone. Price’s fingers keep their pressure on your clit while he keeps you pinned to him with nowhere to go, and you know you’re not gonna last. Not when it feels so good to be in his arms, to feel his warm skin, and underneath it the strong muscles that keep you at his mercy. Not when he remembers exactly how to touch you to make you shiver in pleasure in mere seconds. Not when his most loyal men are probably looking at you from the other side of the pool. The idea that they might actually be, that they might understand what their Captain is doing to you, that they might even get hard at the view - you feel so dirty at admitting it, but it is what really makes you go over the edge. 

You come with a silent sob, biting into Price’s shoulder, until he redirects your mouth on his own. He kisses you with a hunger, a desperate thirst, like it pains him to want you this much. You answer with your own passion, careless in your display of affection for him. Low whistles and impressed Damn, captain erupt from the three other men. You part from Price with a chuckle, still not daring to look behind you. Until you feel someone gently tugging at your wrist. 

“Don’t keep her all to yourself Captain” Gaz beautiful eyes find yours, checking if you’re okay to follow him. You’re pretty sure he’s the only one to be able to snatch something from Price’s lap without too much trouble. John grumbles something that is lost in your soft laughs as Gaz brings you back with him near Soap and Ghost. 

“Now, tell us a story from your time with our Captain, I’m sure you have some funny ones!” he offers, and you comply, not minding the fact Gaz’s hand is still on your wrist, absentmindedly drawing circles in your skin with the tips of his calloused fingers.

❄️

You get back to the cottage just before sunset. The heater is still broken, but it’s a blessing in disguise, corelling you all into the living room, where the nice warmth of the fireplace makes for a mellow atmosphere. Soap has managed to find your stash of scotch, a vice you don’t indulge often in, but you still keep a few bottles at hand, to celebrate happy occasions or cushion hard news. You guess your reunion with Price is worth bringing those bottles out. 

The evening feels like one of those too-perfect fuzzy memories, made of laughter, comfort food and enough of the brown liquorous beverage to dull the last of your awkwardness around those newfound friends. Price has procured a cigar, spicy smoke weighing heavy on your senses. Someone has chosen a vinyl from your collection and turned on the old record player. Slow tempo music with suggestive lyrics. Gaz tugs you up from the ground, has you two sway along to the song - he moves his hips with a disconcerting easiness. You don’t really know what you’re doing, but he’s happy enough you follow him. You laugh in the dance, and he gets bolder, holding you closer with each new chorus. It drives you crazy.

Your earlier release at the hand of Price is long forgotten, and your whole body has been on fire since you came back from the hot springs. You can feel how embarrassingly wet you are, every little touch to move you out of the way in the kitchen, to lead you to your seat on the couch, every time they lay a finger on your waist, your arm, or even your face to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. Everything they do to you makes you go crazy with want. Of course Price is the bolder of them all, large palms holding your hips while you step on a chair to reach something high in your kitchen, kisses stolen in the corridor, hungry eyes following your every move. 

He might be guilty of teasing you to death, but the three others are not that innocent either. And Price is letting them. He’s very clearly allowing them to flirt, watching with a small smile as they make you laugh, as they make you crave their attention. Yes, guilty, they are all guilty. And you’re their very willing victim.

Your glass is still in hand, your eyes are half closed. Ghost and Soap are sitting side by side on your couch, bodies relaxed, eyes on you and Gaz. Simon’s balaclava is bunched up on his nose, still hiding a part of his face, but allowing him to sip on his - yours actually - scotch. He’s watching you dance like you’re the prettiest girl in the club, although his hand is possessively holding Soap’s knee. You noticed they were close, but you did not expect this open display of affection. It means they trust you to some extent. It flatters your ego, makes you balance your hips more boldly.

As the song comes to an end, Gaz has you in a tight embrace with your back against his firm chest, his hot breath fanning over the sensitive skin of your neck, his lips so close from your nape, you wish he would kiss you there already. It’s not calculated, more instinct than wit, but you tilt your head ever so slightly to the side, baring your neck to his mouth. It must be instinct from his part also, because he immediately takes the bait and lays a gentle kiss on the side of your neck. You leave out a shaky exhale at the sensation and sink a little more against him. He leaves another kiss, a little lower, going down where your neck meets your shoulder. And another one. It’s not about instinct anymore, it’s deliberate, it’s a clear choice. The gentle warmth of the alcohol, the smoke of the cigar, the tiredness of the afternoon spent in the water - it all makes your body pliant and your mind happily dizzy.

“Let us thank you for the stay, lovie” Kyle murmurs against the shell of your ear, his hands solid on your hips, leaving no doubt as to how they intend to thank you. The shock of his demand forces you to use your brain for a second. You kinda knew this was coming - you wished it too. But it’s one thing to fantasize about it, and another to live up to it. Your eyes fly open to Price, searching for his opinion on this. Not hard to guess he already had his word to say in the situation, but still. 

“Don’t look at me. It’s up to you darling.” His voice is thick, thicker than usual. “You can say no. At any time.” he adds, words carefully chosen. The fire in his eyes when you nod your consent matches the fire between your legs.

Price rises from his chair while Kyle stays glued to your back, holding you upright, like an offering to his Captain. John stands in front of you, locks eyes with you and takes a long inhale on his cigar. His hand catches your chin, and he bends toward you until his mouth is a hair away from yours. You willingly part your lips to let him breathe out the smoke in your lungs. You can’t take it all, and the smoke spills out, engulfs your field of view, drowning you in the smell you have learned to recognize as his. Something rich and spicy, heavy and masculine, powerful and his, his, his- 

Price takes advantage of the way the smoke makes you even dizzier to kiss you on the lips. A hungry kiss, mirroring the one he gave you when he had you in his lap earlier in the springs. Before you close your eyes to focus on the way his tongue is licking inside your mouth, you vaguely register Ghost getting up and taking the cigar from his captain’s hand to let it drop in the ashtray. You feel his giant presence, can feel him nuzzling at the top of your head, smelling your hair, fingers ghosting over your shoulder and upper arm. It’s becoming overwhelming very quickly to be surrounded by them, and if not for Gaz holding you upright against him, you’re not sure you would still be standing up. 

Simon’s fingers find their way down your arm, until he gently takes your hand. His hold is feather-light, leaving you the opportunity to retreat. It’s a stark contrast with the raw strength you know he’s capable of. Price reluctantly stops kissing you, his large palms still holding your jaw from both sides angling your face towards his lieutenant. He wouldn't want for you to miss the show of Simon’s tongue peeking from his rosy lips to give a little lick at the pad of your fingers. Once, then twice. He groans, content with the taste of your skin. A predator confirming he caught the right prey. Without any warming he engulfs two of your fingers in his mouth, and sucks on the digits like he’s trying to get to the marrow of your bones. But instead of sharp teeths, all you get is the strange feeling of warmth and wetness, the powerful swipe of his tongue - he’s the one shoving your hand in his mouth, yet you have the intuition the big bad wolf is just a lost pet looking for a master. You press your fingers on his tongue, and down, until your flesh is flush against his teeth, and you keep pressing. He has no choice but lowering down too, unless he risks hurting you. 

The hands of Price and Gaz on your body tighten ever so slightly, when Simon finally puts his knees on the floor. With just two fingers between his lips, you have managed to make the giant kneel at your feet. He’s gazing at you with glassy eyes, the black make-up fading on his skin making his blond lashes pop. 

Simon nuzzles against your legs, and despite him being on his knees, his impulse for action is still there. He pushes his face against your crotch, his balaclava is bunching up on his nose and the bump of the fabric is providing some nice friction against your clothed cunt. Definitely not enough to quench your desire, but it’s welcome. It’s visibly an offense to Ghost that you’re still wearing clothes, so while Price is taking your attention with passionate kisses, he removes your pants and panties, until you can feel the air against your tender flesh. You’re already dripping, you can feel it against your inner thigh.

That’s when Soap, who is behind Ghost, a hand under his balaclava, fisted in his hair, pushes his face against your weeping cunt. Simon gives your folds a broad lick, and you let a heavy sigh out on Price’s lips. Ghost is lapping at you without any shame, his wicked tongue goes everywhere, no inch of the delicate skin between your legs is free from his attention. You have to grasp at Price’s shirt to steady you, because you’re squirming from the delicious wet warmth on your cunt. Gaz is still behind you, supporting you upright. His hands have found their way on your ass, he’s playing with the supple flesh, fingers inching between your cheeks. 

“Can I touch you here?” he whispers, his breath hot on the shell of your ear, and you nod your consent without second thought. He lets his broad hands wander fully between your ass cheeks, thumbs gently petting at your hole. Each sensation is not entirely new, but layered like this, happening all at the same time - it’s so much, intoxicating in the best sense. Ghost tongue in your cunt is making sinful noises, and you’re drowning in it all, body fully shivering between all of them. You feel a knot tighten in your gut with alarming speed, and you come for the first time of the night, moaning against Price’s neck. 

Price sweeps you off wobbly legs, and places you delicately on one of the mattresses. After this first orgasm, the warmth of the fire with the softness of the many blankets makes for a divine sensation. 

“All good love? Wanna keep going?” John asks, his blue eyes set on your face, looking for any sign of discomfort or hesitation.

“Yes!” you answer with a fervor that makes the men chuckle.

“Wanna taste you too, hen” it’s Soap - he lies between your legs, folds them on your chest, so he can look at your cunt like it’s the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, before starting to lick, drinking the juices from your previous orgasm. He’s eating you messily but with enthusiasm, spending some time fucking you with his toungue, his thumb pressing on your clit. Your soft moans soon fill the air. It makes him bolder, and he goes even lower, his tongue licking at your puckered hole, not searching to go in, but feasting on every patch of skin he can find between your thighs.

Ghost is kneeling again, this time next to your head. He bends at the waist to kiss your mouth, making you taste yourself on his lips. He’s disciplined in the way he kisses you. After Price’s hunger, it’s a clear contrast. He makes you submit to his rhythm and is not afraid to make you feel the scrape of his teeth on your already swollen lips. He’s precise, sharp, calculated. Unlike you, he can’t be easily overwhelmed, and if you can coax a reaction out of him, it’s only because he lets you. 

Soap has you come on his tongue, and you don’t even have the time to let your legs go down before Price hoists them on his shoulders. An undignified little yelp escapes your lips in confusion and surprise that John is quick to sooth. 

“Shhh love, I’m here, you’re ok.” his gravelly voice making you so insanely hot that it has you clench on nothing. You’re not empty for long though. He fills you up in one slow inescapable move. It burns, but in a good way, a searing warmth seizing your whole body. The stretch is a lot. It has you clamp up on him, in a vicious reaction circle. 

“Fuck, you’re… a… lot.” you whimper, eyes shut to try and focus on relaxing.

“Don’t fight it” you recognize Ghost’s voice. “You’re doing great, bonnie” Soap echoes. “Breathe, gorgeous” Gaz adds. 

You open your eyes to see the three men in various states of undress, lounging on the mattresses around you both. Their gaze is fixed on you both, eager for the show you’re offering.

“Look at me, love.” John falls on his forearms, folding you in two. He cradles your face in his big palms, demanding for your full attention - the blue of his eyes is so dark, yet they are shining, like you’re watching a night sky full of stars. 

“You’re perfect. Your body is perfect. I know you can take it.” He punctuates his affirmation with a delicious rolling thrust of his hips, that has your lips part around a soft moan. 

“So let me make you feel good”

You can’t remember a single time in your life when you felt this good. This level of passion, not only from one person, but from four men. They take turns and team up to make you feel good. There are too many fingers and tongues on your body for you to count - sucking at your tits, leaving bruising kisses on your neck, hitting the most sensitive places inside of you, rubbing at your swollen clit. They discover they love giving a spank or two to your ass to hear you cry out in surprise then laugh and groan when the gentle heat of the blow reaches your cunt. They tie your wrists with a scarf for a minute, so you won’t disturb them in the very important task of finding out which one of them can make you come the fastest.

You love what they do to you, but you also want to please - want them to feel a tenth of the pleasure they offer. You follow the trail of hair on Soap’s belly with your mouth until you reach the tip of his cock. You ride Price until the muscles of your thighs give out. You swallow every drop of Gaz’s cum. You let Ghost come on your chest. 

“you’re taking me so well” “look at you, so pretty” “there you go, just like that, perfect" "you’re so good for us" 

You bask in their encouragement, let your brain short-circuit with their heady dirty talk, let your body go floaty, your limbs grow sore, let your flesh bruise under ravenous lips, let your skin get covered in sweat and spit and cum and your own wetness. The night is not young anymore when you shatter one last time on Price’s cock. He gently lay down your legs from his shoulders where they were perched. You don’t have any strength left in you to protest when Simon sits between your open legs to lick you clean for a couple minutes, ignoring your soft whines of overstimulation. It’s Gaz who comforts you, letting you know how good you’ve been, that you need to let them clean you up. He gently pets your hair while Simon and Johnny return with a damp clean cloth and try their best at cleaning your skin, before cleaning themselves. 

They help you into a warm hoodie - it’s so oversized it obviously belongs to one of them. They feed you pieces of dried fruit, tilt a cup of water to your lips, cuddle with you in front of the fireplace. The crackling of the fire is the background to their gentle chats and laughs, and the occasional muffled moans when Ghost keeps his lips on Soap’s neck. The view is sinful - those two men, built like Greek gods, half-naked, kissing each other - it would be enough to re-ignite your desire if you weren’t feeling so sore. And yet there’s something more than lust between them, something tender you guess they don’t show often. 

You eventually drift to sleep against Price, his body solid and warm by your side. Just like old times, you think just before he gently kisses your forehead - and you fall asleep understanding that maybe love has no fixed timeline.

[iamnotoriginalphil]

Hey! I love your writing. I’ve been wanting Kate Stewart fics for years now so I’m glad you started writing for her!

Could you write a Kate Stewart x Reader fic where the reader is insecure about how she looks and doesn’t feel like she’s good enough for Kate so she becomes distant and Kate gets worried, and it ends with Kate finding out why she’s been distant and ends up reassuring and comforting her?

How can I not write for her when I love her so much?

CW: self-esteem issues, boss/employee relationship, hurt/comfort, angst

You weren’t hiding. That would be childish. You’d just retreated into the quiet corner to get on with your paperwork. You had reports to write, and some labs to finish up. It was normal. Nothing odd. Nothing to raise concern.

It just also didn’t hurt that it was far enough from Kate that she couldn’t see you.

The feeling had been creeping up on you for a while now. Small things that led to the dread and anticipation sitting heavy in your stomach. Even before the entire thing had started, you’d known it was too good to be true. It was only a matter of time before Kate realised it too. 

The longer it went on, the worse it became. Every morning, rolling out of bed, staring in the mirror, the list of reasons for why Kate shouldn't be with you just grew longer. It was easy to forget when her lips turned your thoughts hazy and her hands made you forget your own name. But the cold harsh light of day just highlighted the truth.

“There you are.”

You looked up from your laptop. Kate was in the doorway, leaning one hip against the frame, arms crossed over her chest, backlit by the light in the hall. Her annoying habit of knowing every corner of the building seemed to have done you no favours. The soft glow made her look ethereal, like an angel come to save you. 

“Hi,” you said, turning your attention back to your work.

“What are you doing in here?” she asked.

“Darren kept humming and I needed some peace and quiet to get everything done,” you replied, still not looking at her.

It was only the sound of her heels clicking against the floor that let you know she was approaching you. Something soft brushed your elbow and you glanced over at her from the corner of her eye. She was sitting beside you, leaning back on the wall, legs straight out in front of her. 

“You couldn’t ask him to stop?” she asked.

“It was easier to just remove myself,” you replied, refusing to turn your head towards her.

“For who?” 

“Can we not do this right now?” you said, finally looking over to her. 

There was a grim smile on her face and she looked tired, shoulders slumped and shadows under her eyes. You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose, not able to stop yourself. It was stupid, to so obviously show your frustration when she’d come looking for you, obviously tired, and you were only adding to her plate. And yet you couldn’t help it. 

“You’ve been working a lot of late nights lately,” she said.

“I’ve been catching up on stuff,” you said.

“You’ve been staying later than me,” she said, “I didn’t know that was possible.”

“Yeah, well, my boss is a real arse,” you said, turning back to your screen.

She chuckled, leaning towards you. Her shoulder pressed into yours more firmly and you wanted to shuffle away from her but knew she’d notice. There was no hiding it behind another excuse. Nothing else to blame it on. 

Still, she must have felt you freeze.

“I know you haven’t had weeks worth of work to catch up on,” she said, voice more quiet than before, but not soft. 

“I have,” you said, “you know how much work comes with the job.”

“I feel like I’ve barely seen you. You leave before I’m up and come home after I’m asleep. When I do see you it’s like you’re not really there with me. Or we’re not talking because your mouth is otherwise engaged,” she said with a sad little huff on the end, “I’ve been missing you.”

“You know where to find me,” you said, “clearly.”

“I’ve scoured the building for you. You hardly wanted to be found,” she said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said.

“You’re sitting in the dark.”

You sighed, closing your laptop, plunging you back into proper darkness. She took it from you, gentle as she lifted it off your lap. She put it to one side. You looked over to her, finding her already watching you. 

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” she asked.

“Nothing,” you sighed, “nothing is going on.”

“Surely you can’t expect me to believe that.”

You gritted your teeth, jaw clenching. Her fingers were soft as they brushed over the curve of your jaw, featherlight, as if she was scared to touch you. You took a deep shuddering breath in, surprised at the way your heart beat too hard, almost painfully, bruising against your ribcage. 

“Are you looking to end things with me?” she asked, voice soft as she clasped her hands in her lap again.

“What?” Your voice was sharp in the silence.

“You’ve been pushing me away for weeks now, avoiding me, hiding from me. It doesn’t take a genius to work out your issue is with me. So, will you be moving out?” she asked.

“My issue isn’t you,” you said, “you’re… perfect.”

“Well, now I know you’re lying,” she laughed.

“No, really. You’re amazing and beautiful and wonderful. I’m the one letting the side down,” you said.

“What do you mean?” she asked, shifting closer.

“I’m not amazing and beautiful and wonderful,” you said. 

“What on Earth are you talking about?” she asked, sounding a mixture of baffled and offended. Which was pretty much exactly what you didn’t want to happen. 

If you pointed out all the ways you weren't good enough for her you’d be signing your own marching orders. Once she realised there would be no chance she’d stick around with you. You had assumed she’d come to the realisation on her own. But to be the one to tell her…

You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes until colours burst behind your eyelids. A strong grip grasped your wrists, pulling them away until you were looking into the warm brown eyes of the woman you loved.

“Talk to me, darling,” she requested, sounding heartbroken.

“You know, every morning I wake up and wonder if today will be the day you realise you can do better. If you’ll realise what I realised when we got started. That I lucked out and tricked you into thinking I was worth your time but of course I’m not. It was just a matter of you noticing too,” you said, pulling your legs up until your knees were under your chin and your arms could wrap around them. 

Her hands found yours again, ignoring the way you’d pulled out of her hold already. Her skin was warm against yours, her touch familiar. You knew the feeling of her hands better than anything else. It hurt, to be touched by her, in that moment.  

“There is nothing to notice.” Her voice was firm and it made you flinch, “or at least, not the kinds of things you’re implying.”

“You’re just saying that because you haven’t yet,” you whispered.

“Tell me.”

“Tell you what?” you asked.

“The things you think I should be noticing,” she said, keeping her voice soft, coaxing you, the way you’d seen her do in the field when she was dealing with a scared fugitive. 

“You want me to tell you all the reasons you should break up with me? Fine. Do you want them in alphabetical or chronological order?” 

“You’re being flippant,” she said, sounding less than impressed.

“Wouldn’t you be?” you demanded.

“Darling, tell me,” she requested, cupping both of your cheeks, refusing to let you out of answering.

“Look at me,” you said.

“I am,” she said.

“Then you can see it. I’m not beautiful like you. I’m not smart like you. I can’t do half of the things you can. You can do so much better than me. I’m nothing compared to you. And I think you’re so amazing and I know I can never measure up. And so yeah, maybe I’ve been a bit distant but it’s because I’m trying to make sure I’m not too hurt when you wake up and realise you can do better and end things with me.”

You watched in real time as understanding bloomed over her face. You braced, tensing with every muscle for the blow that you knew was coming. Only then her face was softening and you were sure she was going to try and be so nice about it. 

“Oh darling,” she sighed and there was the pity coming in strong.

You pushed against her shoulders, trying to get her away from you. Gasping for breath, feeling a sob bubble up in your chest, you needed room. It was too much with her right there, right in front of you, staring at you, watching you so closely there was no room for you to fall apart. 

“I wish you could see yourself through my eyes,” she sighed, her thumbs running along your cheekbones.

“Stop being nice to me,” you said, snapping if not for the broken moan of pain your words turned into. 

“Not until I know you’re hearing me,” she said, “because I happen to think you’re bloody brilliant.”

You scoffed but her hands were still on your cheeks, not letting you look away from her. 

“Darling, the first time I saw you, you stole my breath. You were, and continue to be, the most beautiful person in the room. And it’s only grown more true the longer I’ve known you because I know who you are now. I’ve never seen anything that I’ve found disappointing. Unless you’ve been lying to me or hiding things from me, I think I have a pretty good sense of who you are,” she said, her voice growing firmer, the kind of voice that didn’t allow for arguments, “are you listening to me?”

You nodded, a small thing, but with her hands on you and those eyes refusing to look away there was no chance of her missing it. She lent forward again, her grip tightening.

“You are what I want in every possible way. There is no part of you I don’t want. I am proud to have you by my side and more than that, I’m proud to love and be loved by you,” she said, “I apologise if my actions or words have ever made you believe otherwise. Hear me now. You are beautiful, and wonderful, and everything I have ever wanted.”

Her fingers brushed away the tears as they fell until they came too fast to catch them all. Your arms were still around your knees, a barrier from her body and yet the strong steady warmth of her palms was seeping in where they met your cheeks. Your chin dipped towards your chest, not wanting her to watch as you fell apart, spine pressed into the wall, shrinking back even as she stared at you, drinking in every moment. 

“You’re only saying that because you don’t realise-” you tried to say.

“I do. I do realise. I see you. All of you in your entirety. I have seen every single part of you including your flaws, and I still choose you. Every moment of every day I’m choosing you. You’re the one I want. The only one I want,” she said, interrupting you before you could begin again. 

Her hand slipped from your cheek and she pressed closer, her hand on your knees, pushing them down until she could get as close as possible without being in your lap. Your own hands were twisting together and you couldn’t look at her. If you did you were worried it would crack you open, leaving you a vulnerable mess in front of her, ripe for the hurting. 

“Darling, I can’t do better than you. You’re it,” she said.

You were slow to drag your gaze back up to her, finding her already broken open in front of you. Her own words had splayed her skin back, showing you her beating heart, waiting for your soft touch to stitch her back together. Reaching out, a trembling hand crossing the distance, your fingertips brushed over her lips, whisper soft. She caught your hand, pressing it more insistently to her mouth as she kissed your fingertips, your palm, the pulse point in your wrist. 

“I love you so much,” you whispered on broken breath.

“That’s a relief,” she said with a small smile, “I was hoping after my little speech you wouldn’t turn me away.”

“I could never,” you said.

And then you were falling forward into her arms, letting her catch you. Her arms curled around your body, gathering you close, surrounding you in every way. Your face pressed into her shoulder and she let the tears soak into the fabric of her blazer. Hand splayed between your shoulder blades, the other on the small of your back, she kept you pressed against her and a part of you wondered if she needed you to steady her as much as you needed her. 

“I love you, darling,” she murmured in your ear.

You sought out her lips, blind in your need. She sighed into your mouth, her hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. You did what she hadn’t and climbed into her lap, not caring you were at work or that someone could walk in. You just wanted to sink into her, to let her knit you back together into a person. 

“Please don’t pull away from me anymore,” she whispered, her lips brushing against yours, “please.”

“I won’t,” you promised, mumbling into her mouth, “I won’t.”

It was soft and slow, both of you taking your time now you knew you had the rest of your life. There was no hurry, just the feeling of needing to know she was with you and wasn’t leaving. She held you tight, keeping you pressed to her, as if trying to absorb you into her being. You would let her, if it was possible.

“We should go home, darling,” she said, drawing back just far enough to share breath, “I think you’ve put in enough late nights to make your boss happy.”

“Can we get a take away?” you asked.

“Of course we can,” she said, gently pushing some hair behind your ear, “as long as we can also take a long hot bath afterwards.”

“That sounds nice.”

You clambered off her lap, helping her to her feet. Her arm looped around your waist, keeping you close, as if worried you’d do a runner if she didn’t. You pressed yourself to her side, not wanting to stray too far from her either. 

You were never going to stray far from her again.

[mikachacha]

𝚆𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝙰𝚠𝚊𝚢 (𝙱𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝙻𝚎𝚎 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛)

Synopsis: After many years of being with Bada, you have decided to walk away. Not because you stopped loving her but because you felt like it was the right thing to do, not only for your relationship but for yourself as well.

Warnings: heavy angst, just a lot of tears for this one, mentions of cheating, language

(A/N: i would like to thank @apreer for suggesting this song ❤ really love it)

🌸💮🌸💮🌸💮🌸💮🌸💮🌸💮🌸💮🌸💮🌸💮🌸

You thought it would get better if you stuck with her for years but it only got worse. From blatant lying to cheating, Bada has done it all. Not just once, not just twice but multiple times. You chose to forgive her as she would always promise to be better. She'd then shower you with love, attention, gifts.. She'll do that for three months at most then the cycle goes back. There were many instances that you thought enough is enough and just simply walk away but each time, she'd pull you right back in with sweet words and empty promises. But now, enough is enough. You're done. You gave her everything and now you're taking back control. It's time for you to love and choose yourself first.

"Y/N, I wouldn't be home until late tonight. I'm sorry baby that we couldn't spend our anniversary together but I promise I'll make it up to you after my schedule clears up." Bada says which you knew was another lie but you nodded nonetheless. She kissed your cheek and rushed out the door while you just sighed before heading back to your shared bedroom.

You began packing your stuff and made sure all your documents are in your bag. You wanted to have a fresh start, away from Bada and from everyone who knows you. You booked a flight to the US so she couldn't follow or track you easily. You just wanted to finally have the freedom to do what you want, to be happy and to regain your old self that you lost while loving Bada.

"If only I wasn't that stupid to come crawling back to you each time you betrayed me, Bada.. Three long years I spent with you. Three years of my life wasted for the likes of you but today I'm putting an end to this. Goodbye, Bada." you smiled bitterly as you looked at the framed picture of you and Bada together, seemingly so in love with each other. You also took off the ring she gave you and placed it on the night stand. With a final look at the house you shared together, you called a cab and headed to the airport.

Bada almost dropped her phone when a notification popped up. It was from the alarm system of your house and it says that you have removed your access to the system. She immediately checked the surveillance tapes through her phone and saw you packing your things. The recent one is you loading your bags into the cab and leaving. Her heart was pounding inside her chest, she felt lost. She felt a pang of pain inside of her as the thought of you leaving her for good flashed through her head.

"Fuck! Y/N please pick up, baby.. Please.." Bada is now frantically pacing around as she tried to call your phone but you weren't picking up. She also sent lots of messages but you just left her on read. She doesn't want to lose you yet she didn't really made too much effort to make you stay.

"What do you want, Bada?" you finally answered as you arrived at the airport. Bada wanted to sigh in relief but she doesn't know where you are and the fact that you're leaving her is still there.

"Baby where are you? Please tell me.. Let's talk things out, you and me.." Bada is now desperate. She doesn't want you to leave but you've had enough of her bullshit.

"I'm about to board the plane. I'm leaving, Bada. We're over. I don't want to be part of your sick games anymore. I'm tired of you taking me for granted and would only pretend to love me just so you can hurt me again.. This will be the last time that we will be talking to each other. Goodbye, Bada. I hope you treat the next girl better than how you treated me the past three years." you said and ended the call before turning it off. You took a shaky breath as you willed yourself not to cry. You're done crying for her.

At that moment, Bada felt truly alone. No one was there for her, the girl she was with earlier has since left, annoyed that Bada paid more attention to you than her. She couldn't stop the tears from falling down as regret and sorrow washed over her like a tidal wave. Today, on the day of your anniversary, Bada lost you. She lost the woman who loved her more than she could ever love herself, the woman who was there for her through thick and thin. It was too late to regret and beg you for forgiveness now as you had made up your mind of walking away from her and from her life for good.

[thekamukuraproject]

I am very obsessed with Izuru but I have only recently grown okay with Izuru and Hajime as the same person but only in a particular way...

Because I hate when Hajime and Izuru are seen as the same and completely interchangeable. I often see people frame it like Hajime is just acting weird or that Izuru is just like a parasite in his brain and he's cured post sim and I've always despised that. It makes it sound like nothing mattered. Like all that heavy brain alteration did nothing because of a virtual reality. Y'know, despite the brain being so unbelievably sensitive to manual changes that neurosurgeons have to keep a patient awake during the procedure to ensure they don't accidentally fuck everything up immensely.

And the stuff about Hajime being "suppressed" irks me.. Like he's there trying to get out or his consciousness is asleep. It sounds like brainwashing. And that's just not how that works. It's not what happened. Hajime underwent surgery and they slowly snipped away his neural connections to his memories, reactions, and other behaviors. That does sound extremely sifi and silly but it's possible!.. Partly. MRI's can see what areas in the brain light up and respond to certain associations and those areas can be severed. It's not perfect but it can do a lot of the heavy lifting when the scientists at Hope’s Peak want as much of Hajime gone as possible.

Hajime is not Izuru. That makes it sound like Hajime, who remembers everything that has ever happened to him and who remembers the people in his life and the things he cared about, it makes it sound like he's still there. He isn't. He's a changed irrepairable person. It is more accurate to say Izuru is Hajime, which admittedly sounds exactly the same with just the names switched but it is FAR better to interpret it as I think.

Izuru is Hajime because Hajime is just the face and body and later on the residual memories that the sim was able to piece back together (note that the pieces with those neural connections weren't removed. It wasn't really a lobotomy. Nothing was removed. So the simulation, assuming it took subconscious memories and brought them more closely to the "surface" of the subconscious to fix the brainwashing. Hajime's neurons could, theoretically, still be kicking and working in there to make a neural map I guess) Izuru is Hajime because he was made to be a husk filled with only Talent and other natural human bits a brain needs to survive, and by the end of the Kamukura Project, Izuru is only Hajime by name. A name that Izuru doesn't remember or need because it's for a boy who let himself die in the desperate attempt to feel important and worth something to himself. And so the name is gone too soon enough.

But if Izuru is a Hajime who was forced to forget his name, family, friends, and just everything that he cared for in his life...Why would he so easily gain everything about himself back after a really intense simulation? I can understand parts of what was Hajime very gradually returning because that is something the brain can do. Like if you get tetanus you'll become paralyzed and the only way to *not* be paralyzed anymore is for you to either not have had tetanus or for your brain to grow around the blockages and create new connections so your brain can communicate with the rest of your nervous system but this process takes months or sometimes even years to recover from. Something like brain surgery is going to have long last effects regardless of the simulation.

If Hajime did regain his thoughts and opinions and memories, wouldn't he be so irreparably changed? The fact he had brain surgery preformed on him cannot be denied. There are canon images detailing it. Izuru can try to regain their identity back but so much is irrepairable it'd probably hurt far less to just make a new identity... Or honor the identity that was abandoned when Hajime's life was nearly eradicated.

For those who have ever read Piranesi. It would be so so similar to that ending with Matthew Rose Sorenson. At the end he states he is neither the original nor Piranesi but a third secret thing because of his experiences in The House and his memories from reality and he does sound a little bit like the Piranesi who is masking his understanding of life in the House and I cannot imagine the post sim hajizuru slurry that is poured out into the real world would behave any differently...

Izuru takes the name Hajime to honor the one who he used to be and because everyone around Izuru knows him as Hajime but he masks that burden of talent that Izuru has been plagued with since their birth and I think it's kinda really encapsulated in dr3's hope arc. He shows up to save Makoto and the remaining survivors and is completely calm and serene about it really. its so alien and different from the freaked out Hajime from the simulation. To me it's always felt like Hajime post sim is just the Izuru who took up the belief to look towards the future and not dwell in the past because that is how you heal and Hajime never learned that but Izuru did.

[witchofthesouls]

Oh~ I just saw your latest post about cybertronians and human dances and I love it!

As a former ballerina, I loved the admiration from the audience but over time grew to hate the process of ballet dancing. Between the cut-throat competition, the EDs, the amount of toenails that have fallen off and lost, and the fact that I don’t really have much feeling left in my feet due to the 15 years worth of ballet that damaged them.

I still love dancing, I just don’t put it above my peace and health anymore, so I can look back at my ballet career and all the stuff that happened and laugh. Trust me, my story isn’t unique among the thousands of ballet performers out there.

I think that cybertronian would be kind of horrified about the ‘smile behind the pain’ and ‘there is beauty in pain’ aspect of ballet, especially the medics and especially about the falling off toenails 😂

Ohhh, thank you for sharing! I actually had some thoughts about this since my mom is a nurse with patients who were professional dancers and holy hell, the kind of injuries that could happen! Ballet feet, indeed.

First Aid would be absolutely horrified and feeling guilty that he enjoyed the performances when it brings on that much damage. He didn't think such beautiful, effortless movements could do long-term damage. The poor thing will start digging into things to learn about the human body and how to mitigate injuries and fall into a weird spiral of "what?! No... What?!"

(It's Skyfire that needs to drag him out that funk since xenobiology on Cybertron was a massive field with so many specialties without going into different species.)

Ratchet, on the other hand, isn't surprised. He's ancient compared to a lot of the crew. He definitely remembers when professional dancers on Cybertron had to have their latches sanded or permanently removed, so it wouldn't catch the costumes or hurt their partners when their bare frames glided together. Luckily, the tech improved, but there are still common injuries like pulls and stains and breaks, especially without proper warm ups or among those without the trained flexibility on an intense choreography or heavy costumes. They still have long term-health impacts as well.

Professional dancers from Cybertron have issues with hyperflexiblity since armature has a key role in protecting joints and ligaments and cables from overusing and overextending. Very set or old professionals have a knack in popping back their parts without a grimace. A must know trick, especially during a performance. The younger ones have masks during the shows until they can master that necessity because crowds don't want to see dancers in pain. Unless it's part of the script. It can get to the point where it severely impacts their own lines (fuel, coolant, lubricant) and need either invasive corrective surgery or retirement.

They also have issues with their sensory perception. Quite a few feel too contained or claustrophobic with proper plating to the point that they're basically in root-mode all the time, so many high-end tailors leverage that. Or use really specialized plating that tricks the outside eye that it's thick when it really isn't.

Another common injury is protoform burn, especially among the dancers that do aerial performances with rigs since the straps are set deep into their base, and they're in direct line of fire of special effects. This can lead to deformations and scarring, which messes with their sensation. Many dancers see this as a matter of pride in their craft and take to highlighting their scars as a calling card or a showing at performances.

Similar to the gladiators' war paints, dancers would utilize specialized paints upon themselves to create a variety of effects: trailing mirages, bold streaks, color shifts, gradients, fog trails, and so on. Some power couples and cohorts among them coordinate their own scarring and preferred effects to create memorizing and stunning visual masterpieces.

Those of the Artisanal Caste were/are very intimate between the fine line of passion and pain.

[jolalibrary]

rainy world, blanket days

frankie morales x f!reader

summary: “Yourewet.” It escapes, muffled between your mouths, as he smiles against your lips. “It’s raining, amor.” 

wordcount: 1.8k an: written for anon, with a huge thanks and dedication to @thelightsandtheroses who let me ramble a lot to her, without complaint. and sorta told me i could do this, even when i didn't think i could. warnings: none. just sweet!frankie, soft vibes, nice ending (real cute, tbf)

When it rains, it pours. 

A sentiment he knows all too well with how his day has been going. 

You and your grand ideas, where simple DIY soon gets out of hand: first, a photo frame, then the guest sink, and now he’s retrieving shelving because you need more space for your books. 

Frankie doesn’t mind. Not really. 

He likes being busy—likes making you smile and how it always hits your eyes and coats him in a warmth that no winter can ever take from him. 

When he'd left, there had been sunshine. By the time he pulls into the car park, the clouds have grown grey and heavy, fingers tugging to pull his collar around his neck to fend off the wind. Hat tugged down, hiding, as he saunters around aisle after aisle, an image in mind of what he wants—what he needs. 

He clambers it all together. Some under his arm, some lodged against his chest, hugged there by his arm. Somewhat wishing he hadn’t been so quick to turn down a bag. All to step out of the automatic doors and be met with a downpour. 

The kind that soaks everything it touches and makes the air smell of petrichor, all fresh earth and mire. A scent which could so easily take him back to jungles and covert missions if not for the way he gripped the wood until splinters threatened to dig into his hands. 

He’s been better recently—more rooted. Finding himself less troubled and minus the haunting of ghosts. 

But, sometimes, they hang in the background. The memories that become nightmares, waiting for a weaker moment to suffocate him. 

You fend them off—doing so without trying. 

You and the smile he thinks of as he throws everything in the truck, slamming the driver door behind him as droplets fall down his neck, sliding from the ends of his curls to run down and settle on his collarbone. 

Palm across his forehead, wiping the beads from his brow as he removes his hat—the one soaked to the bone. He knows it’ll take hours to dry, trying to hang it off the passenger headrest as he wrestles with how naked he feels without it. 

You like it off. 

Often whispering it to him, having done so the other night when you were straddling his lap, pushing it back, taking it in your fingers before placing it backwards on your head. 

“Do I suit it, Frankie? Your hat.” 

He wished he’d taken a photo, made it his background. 

You in his oversized shirt, a pair of boxers turned shorts, and his hat on your pretty little head. The thought alone sparks warmth through his chest, suddenly turning the key more eager, more determined. 

Desperate.  

That’s what he was: desperate. To see you, get home to you. 

The work-in-progress which changes month by month before their eyes as vision and his handiwork being it to life. 

He likes working on it, your two's home. But sometimes, in weather like this, he wishes for blankets and candles, no lights—just the flicker of a movie he’ll pretend to watch for the first act before he silently studies you. 

Or music, soft, lulling music that floats around the walls. The occasional raps of the branches from the tree on the window, the one you refuse to have Frankie cut down. 

He craves one today, never really being one for lazy days, but now it’s those days he loves the most with you. The ones which are easy, a gift. They come along infrequently, but when they do, he tries to clutch on to them too tightly—in the same way, he likes to have you close. 

Whether it’s bare legs thrown over his thighs, fluffy socks twitching under the blanket, or you slotted against his side, hand playing with his fingers as his lips twitch into a smile periodically. 

It’s those memories, that wish, that carries him home. The car windows steam up under the clamminess of his skin, the radio humming songs he barely listens to when he finally swings his truck on the drive. Forgetting the items beside him, including his hat, as he steps out, not even doubling back when he presses the key to lock it—just desperate to get inside, and when he does…

It’s all he’s been wishing for and more. 

The scent of a burning wick hits him first, followed by hot cocoa. Shutting the front door, locking it—and keeping the world out—he slides his feet from his boots, leaving them in a state on the mat. Then he begins his hunt for you, fingers brushing down doorways, leaning into the kitchen, and then the living room.

Frankie frowns as his fingers scratch at his damp hair. Something akin to worry begins to needle at his chest, making his heart stammer—rattling in his chest. 

His next stop, the only one truly left, catches his eye as droplets fall from his jacket, painting the wooden floor in dots from the outside. The door, all half-open and ajar, as it had been this morning when he’d followed you out of it, sleep clinging to his lashes as you excitedly talked about decor and needing his help. 

Now, he worries he didn’t lock the door. That something had happened. Not even remembering the last time he checked his phone or—

You collide into him suddenly, all quickly. 

In a way that forces all of the pieces of him to slot back together, making the worry dissipate. Your grin growing at the sight of him, hitting your eyes as you begin to beam as though he’s your sun and not just a man you met one day and never got rid of. 

He thinks of speaking, whispering a hi and then pulling you close, but he gets tangled up—thoughts balling and knotting in his head at the sight of you. 

You look so comfortable and relaxed, your face clean and free of anything—one of his tees adorning your frame, hiding your curves from him. 

There’s something about seeing you undone that he'll never grow used to. How at ease around him you are, have been since early days. It’s almost his favourite sight, taking it over summer dresses and painted lips—almost. 

Frankie’s favourite has more to do with when your lips are parted, thighs on either side of him—pupils blown, skin warm, sweat pebbling on your hairline and collarbones. You make the prettiest noises then, too—an array of Francisco’s and Frankie’s pecking the air. 

Your eyes are narrowing, confusion mounting at his stare and empty hands. He knows you—about as well as you know him. 

Frankie knows that you’re beginning to worry with how your brow slides up your forehead, that concern-laced words will fall from your tongue as your mouth starts to part. But he moves, pounces, rids the air of comments that aren’t please and more. 

Slanting his lips over yours, he steals your thoughts. Intentionally, his tongue licks into your mouth to wipe up the remainder of any words that had been forming. It’s only as he nips at your bottom lip, tasting the whimper you let him have, is he aware of your arms coming around his neck, feels fingers scrape against his hair, his scalp—

“Yourewet.”

It escapes, muffled between your mouths, as he smiles against your lips. “It’s raining, amor.” 

Frankie slides his fingers across your cheek, keeping you close, letting him take his time to kiss you, enjoy you. His other hand is busy sliding up your frame—fingers brushing the overwashed, seen-better-days t-shirt of his that you love—all to find purpose on your hip. Wishing to grip it, his thumb digging ever so lightly—not enough to bruise, although he could (enjoys doing so, too), but enough to inform you what he wants. 

You. Always you. 

Rainy days and sunny ones. The difficult ones and the easy ones. 

“Frankie…” 

He kisses the side of your mouth, humming—indicative that he’s heard you. 

“I’ve got the blankets out. Queued a movie and—“

“Lit the candles,” he finishes, one last kiss to your jaw before he retracts, letting you go to look you up and down as he folds his arms, leaning against the doorframe. 

The silence allows the sound of rain hammering against the window panes to find his ears—doing so to a beat similar to how his heart thumps at the sight of you. The way it has done since he woke up one morning and couldn’t get the thought from his mind: 

I want to marry you. 

He’s been thinking about it for weeks, months.

Moments adding to other ones, collecting them like stamps. Letting them layer and layer—

You drag him from his thoughts, shifting on the balls of your feet, an unreadable expression flushing out the one he’d put there a moment ago. “Is that… okay?” 

He nods, slow at first before a grin accompanies it. You pull it from him easily, and do so all the time—a thing the others have noticed. 

“All I was thinking about at the hardware store.” 

“You were thinking about a blanket day?” 

His lip twitches. “Thinking about you under a blanket, yeah.” 

You try to hold it back, but you smirk. Eyes latched on him as he shrugs his jacket off, your hand gesturing to take it from him, pulling it close to you. 

“I’ll let you pick the movie,” you say, moving past him, holding his eye line as your hand brushes his chest, taking his jacket with you. “And I’ll hang this up to dry.” 

He smirks knowingly. 

Because you only let him choose when you have no intention of watching it. 

“I’ma just change,” he calls out, heading into the bedroom—passing the mirror, the wardrobe. Shifting around the end of the bed as he hovers near the bedside table. 

Letting his fingers find the handle, he pulls on the top drawer, glancing at the door. Nervousness prickles, mixes with the drizzle sliding down his spine, as he opens it, peering in. 

At first, he sees nothing, and then just the corner of it. 

Just how he left it, smothered in clean, holey socks and receipts—the blue box which stares up at him. All 4.7 x 3.9 of it. 

The one which had been heavy in his pocket the day he picked it up to bring it home. How it began burning a hole in his jacket until he hid it, stuffing it in the back of the nook for the right day. 

Today though, he lets his fingers pull it out from the corner it’s been trapped in. Feeling how light it actually is, for the weight it has on his shoulders. 

“Frankie, y'coming?”

He smiles, both at the box in his fingers and your impatience. Nudging the drawer shut with his knuckle, a scar catching his sight—one you always stroke, never asking, yet reading the story behind it with each touch.

He calls back that he’ll be a minute, placing the box on the bed, opening other drawers and slamming them shut once he'd found sweats and a fresh tee. Dressing, he feels the warmth slide up his neck, reaching his ears as his pulse thunders.

Having decided today will be the day the ring finds a new home—hopefully, one on your finger. 

an: hope this was fluffy enough, anon.

[sgt-scottymoreau]

Stuck in the elevator

Summary: Tension rise and rise, it has to come down one way or another.

Warning: 18+, MDNI!

Words: 857 // Masterlist

A/N: This take a lot of courage to post. I have a lot of more spicy fics written but most of them are not canon per sey. They are like one time fantasy thing that I wanted to write for the fun of it or a concept that I really liked. So, these shouldn't be taken too seriously :P Anyway, here one of them that I actually wrote like a while ago, last year maybe?

Despite her venting to Gaz, Scotty still had bitterness to let out. She pressed the elevator button, foot tapping impatiently. The door opened. She was not paying much attention, always mumbling under her breath, but her eyes eventually lifted up to get in. That's when she saw him. Her mumbles stopped short and she glared at him. She could either turn around take the stairs or wait for another elevator or… don't give a fuck and go in anyway because he would sure love to see her coward away. Scotty stepped in feeling Ghost's gaze on her. None of them exchanged a word once she pressed her floor and the door closed with the softess 'ding'. Even the elevator seemed to feel uncomfortable with the tension that was building. 

That or it was the beginning of their problem. The light flickered and all the sudden between two floors it came to an abrupt stop. Scotty's blood boiled in her veins. "Fucking great…"

"My thoughts exactly." Ghost let out as he pressed the bell button. A couple of times. Till the service answered. Because the repairman was far from the base, they would be stuck for a while. At least 2 hours. 

"What! You can be serious?" Scotty shrieked, not expecting an answer. She groaned loudly. "Fucking stuck with you for 2 hours…. Great…"

"Oh because being stuck with you isn't bad? It's a fucking nightmare." He crossed his arms and rested against the wall. 

"I didn't follow your order once! ONCE!"

"Once? The whole bloody mission you didn't listen to me! Only doing what you wanted. Like you are the one in charge. Do I need to remind you who is?" 

"Maybe!" This was a small interaction. But it was the one they both needed to understand why they were so fed up with each other. And if they really had a few hours to kill…

"You can be so fucking stubborn." Ghost breathed heavily, closing the distance between them. He unzipped his jacket. "A pain in the arse. So annoying." 

"Because you think you are better? Mister know-it-all, I hate when you are like this, Riley. You fucking jerk." Her hands reached for her pants working on removing them as quickly as possible. 

"What about you uh? Don't need help till you fuck up and I need to drag your sorry arse out of trouble." Ghost undid his belt, pulling down his pants to his knees. His hands then lifted her hoodie above her breasts. 

"As if! Go fuck yourself sir." Scotty removed his mask. They stared at each other for a second before their lips clashed against each other in a heated kiss. Ghost lifted her, holding her between his frame and the wall. His hips rubbed against her inner legs. Scotty had not wasted time and already had removed her underwear. He still had his own on and they were getting wet by her. 

"That's what I intend to do, sergeant." He said between two breaths. Holding her still with one hand, he pulled the last remaining of clothes that separated them aside. His dick rubbed her cunt, coating itself with wetness. Ghost grabbed her by the ass to have more stability while he placed himself right to her entrance and pushed in. He tried slow, but her cunt gripped on him making him slide so fast. A moan escaped her lips. Scotty wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers clawed at the back of his hair. 

Not a single word was exchanged after that. Only their heavy breathing and their moans. To hell if someone heard them, nothing mattered at the moment. His chest pressed harder against hers, her covered breasts rubbing against his shirt. He pounded hard and rough, his legs were almost shaking under the weight of both and the repeated movement. It didn't matter either. 

"Oh fuck!" Ghost groaned loudly as he felt his climax on so close. His fingers locked in her hair pulling her head back so he could pluck kisses all over her skin. Scotty bit her lower lips to keep down any louder moans. She was also on the edge of coming. 

Ghost gave a few more thrusts before they both came at the same time. Once their climax calmed down, they caught their breath. Scotty pressed one more kiss on his lips. "We good?" She sighed. 

"For now, yes. Unless you get on my nerves again today." 

"Is that a challenge?" 

"You are a pain in the arse, love." Ghost shook his head with a smile. Surprisingly the elevator started again. They scrambled to put their pants back on. It opened on the next floor, Price and Soap were standing there discussing when their eyes caught sight of them. They looked like a mess…

"I am not even going to ask." The captain said turning around to go take the stairs. 

"Worked out your issues?" Soap grinned. 

"In a way." Scotty replied, pulling her hoodie higher on her neck to cover the hickeys and brushed her hair with her fingers to look more decent. "Now if you excuse me I have paperwork to fill."

[kamisama1kiss]

Just read your Descendants Lloyd AU, honestly props to the person who came up with it cause I love it so incredibly much!

Can you please do one where it comes out that Lloyd and Reader are a couple and everyone is all confused and surprised that the Garmadon boy has a soft spot for someone, causing weirded out looks, which makes him a little insecure.

Reader pries out of him what’s wrong and when he admits it, she reassures him that it’s all fine and than accidentally drops the L word and he’s so surprised and confused because THIS IS NEW

The way I just didn't want to stop writing on this idea, it was too cute 😭🙏 whoever you are has blessed my soul, istg! Didn't proofread, so be careful 😝

{!Gender neutral! With use of They/Them/Their}

~~~

Lloyd Garmadon Descendents Au { Nervous lover boy }

{Words counted: 570+}

Walking next to him as they held up books for the next classes for the evening, “Hey, Lloyd?” they spoke out of the blue, looking up at him over their shoulder, seeing him already having his deep amethyst eyes gazed on their frame. "Yeah." simple answer from his side, seemingly he had been a tad distant more the last few days.

"If you're free today, could you maybe help me with an essay later today?” lifting a brow of curiosity with a tiny grin creeping up their features. Almost a hesitant of an answer, he looked around himself, checking for others listening ears and daggers of disgusted gaze.

“Yeah, I don't mind.” Finally, he answered, leaving them a tad confused, with the hesitation that lingers in his tone and actions. Even now, avoiding eye contact with them even, which felt odd coming from him out of all people. Their eyes looked around but quickly saw the glares alongside mumbling and pointing fingers at the duo.

It clicked now for them why he seemed more inverted than usual, at least to them, that is. “Why haven’t you -" but Lloyd silenced them before their words could continue. “How about we talk more later, yeah?” He spoke quietly yet fast before turning on the heel and walking the other way, leaving them behind.

Their expression falters as they watch him fade away into the crowd, head down, hands in pockets. They felt uneasy to say it simple. Looking back at their peers as they shushed between themselves while trying to hold back laughter.

This is a topic of discussion even if he wished for it or not. Sticking to their defeat this time around, gripping the books, thier eye turned down as a blanket of gloss filled the brim. Shaking it off for now as they continued on their next destination, class.

~~~

They sat on his bed with book in hand and the boy himself next to them helping with reading, luckly Carlos, Dude and Jay had gone out with Mal and Evie. Giving the two of them the time and space, which is what they both had asked for.

Clock was ticking louder as their ears rang, lost focus minutes ago, breathing heavy heartedly. “Lloyd, we need to talk…” They started while removing their eyes from the filled pages, “..what was this morning?”

"Nothing, just remembered that Carlos wanted to chat with me about... the team" Shrugged his shoulders, never removing the focus on many of the words in the book. "You can be honest with me. I hope you know that." Placing a hand on top of his to show comfort.

Eye contact was almost immediately received from his side, "I do, just.. dont worry, kay?" Tilting his head to the side with his hair falling after him, almost looking like a puppy. "I saw them, the pointing, laughing, and the glares..." took a deep breath "I am not oblivious."

Lloyd procrastinated with answering before shaking his head, having his head fallen down. "No, you're right." Looking ahead as to maintain eye contact with them. "They are well looking down at me... for another reason than being me." They nodded lightly, signalling to their ears being open.

"It's because I am in a relationship. I am known for a lot but being soft? Isn't one of them." His ears showed a soft redish pink being embarrassed of having to come to terms with admiting it. "It's dumb. I should have told you, but... maybe you'd think the same once you heard what they said."

From a shocked to a saddened experience, they shook their hand, placing the other hand on top of his as well. "I would never stop loving you." Gliding their thumb up and down the back of his palm, "They're just a bunch of snobs anyhow. Don't let it get to you."

With even noticing their usage of words, his eyes softened, having focused on one word specifically. "You love me?" He whispered, wanting to make sure he heard correctly.

"Well.. yes, I do." Recreating a warm sensation on their features, "..and I have for a while." Chuckling softly with a drop of nervousness could be easily picked up. "I didn't think you saw me like that, especially with.. my family history." Squeezing their hands in his own grip.

"That's ridiculous. You are your own person." They started. "You're different from your father." Lifting his hand up to kiss the back of his palm before leaning in his hand. "You're amazing, Lloyd." They whispered, looking into his glossy eyes. "Thank you, sweetheart."

"Don't thank me, thank yourself for being you." Smiling gently at him showing only that their actions ment pure and true affection. "You're so cheesy." Softly laughing before leaning forwards for a peck on their cheek, "Still."

[ronearoundblindly]

Being in the hospital im thinking what would it be like if Ari's girl ended up in the hospital nothing life threatening but something that needed to be treated in the hospital. I'm betting he'd be a nervous wreck and wouldn't let anyone see it he'd maybe go into the bathroom and freak but I'm guessing he'd try and stay strong but crack a bit infront of her or maybe stay overnight if they let (it depends on the wards)

ok, full disclosure, I did absolutely no research for this because I'd like you to have reading materials, so it's in no way scientific 🤷🏻‍♀️

The Chair Beside Your Bed, a Bedrock and Blueprints tale

No warnings except minor angst to fluff. (Sry, the gif barely works here but I'm...not changing it. 👀) WC 975

Ari can barely keep his eyes open. You're already asleep, but he just can't bring himself to join.

The IV in your hand looks uncomfortable when you tense involuntarily. He watches the tendons pull and roll beneath your skin and swallows hard.

He should have seen the signs, and the doctors say you'll be right as rain once the antibiotics are done. He still can't leave. He still can't eat. He still refuses to sleep.

Ari's mind can refuse all it wants. Eventually, his eyelids are too heavy, his neck slumps over the thin pillow behind it, and he's lost to a dreamless land in the chair beside your hospital bed.

"Ow," you hiss, releasing the two-by-four in your grasp.

"You get your hand, honey? I got those gloves for you."

You wave him off. "No, no. Stepped too close to the pile and scraped my leg. No big deal. That's almost all the wood from the truck."

"Great," Ari chirps, straightening after marking the outline of your She-Shed in the backyard. "I'll go get another load before dark. We can plot out the frame and whatnot tomorrow."

As you wipe the back of your hand over your head, Ari doesn't see any blood on your legs and immediately forgets.

"So we'll need equal amounts of wood on all sides," you ask.

He shrugs and pulls off his own thick work gloves. "More or less, yeah." Ari won't let you use any of the tools, but he will let you speak like it's a joint effort. Because it is. Everything he does is meant for you now.

While he's out at the store again, you divvy up the stacks of planks around the edges, far enough away for space to work but close enough for convenience. He's grateful, but Ari doesn't realize this means hours where you did not clean the cut on your leg.

A week later and you're running a slight fever. Ari only notices you aren't walking properly when you get off the couch.

His worst fear at that point is that stupid desk chair you're always complaining about. Your back is constantly aching. He wishes the company would replace all the chairs soon but especially, specifically yours.

You work too hard. You're worn out.

He knows you've had a bandaid on one calf, but it's on the outside leg where you sleep in the bed. He forgets a lot until his leg brushes against it while you two snuggle, and you hiss in pain.

Ari insists on taking a look, switching on the bedside lamp. He can tell something is wrong before even removing the bandage because it's red beyond the adhesive. The middle is warm to the touch, which he can barely do before you gripe at him.

You promise to go to the urgent care first thing in the morning, and Ari drives you himself. You're so sure that they'll just slap some pills in your hand and send you on your way that you shoo him off to work.

He gets a voicemail two hours later.

"Hey, uh, don't be mad, but they've transferred me to the hospital. I have to be hooked up to this drip thing for a few days and--"

Ari's in his truck before his supervisor can even wish you well.

If he'd thought about it at all, he would have gone by the house to get you and him a change of clothes, but no such luck. He refuses to leave the hospital grounds and only leaves the building when he absolutely can't stand his cigarette cravings anymore. Otherwise, he is right beside you.

You sleep a surprising amount, wiped out by the intensity of your treatment albeit fairly standard.

It's a long three days.

Ari decided after the first afternoon there that his chair needed to be on the other side of your bed. That way he could hold your hand that wasn't pierced with a needle, and he can safely rest his head on your side.

When you're awake, your fingers card through his hair. When you're awake, you tell him he looks like shit and needs to sleep, too.

"I promise I will later."

"You're lying," you complain weakly.

"Yeah, kid, I'm lying."

This exchange happens three separate times: the first you forget, the second you laugh at, and the third you start playing dirty.

You tell him you'd like to listen to one of your audiobooks, and since neither of you has headphones, you play it on speaker with the phone on your chest.

Ari is successfully out cold within minutes and wakes refreshed and a little pissed.

He lied and told the nurses you are his wife in order to be allowed to stay overnight, so them calling him by your last name during the discharge routine is awkward, to say the least.

Ari has fun explaining that one on the drive home.

With a few more days of ingestible antibiotics left, you're entirely on the mend and use every single ounce of your energy to argue Ari out of the house and off to work. He only feels less guilty when he comes back to find you asleep again, and after one more full day of bed rest, you are able to return to work as well.

From those days on, however, you are forbidden from helping with any repairs or building Ari does. José and Dimitri are rangled to assist when necessary, but it's a hard line in the sand that Ari will not shift on. He also takes it upon himself to be the First Aid King of the Castle and is in charge of all bandaging and cleaning of any wounds, no matter how small.

You only allow this complete farse (enacted over every papercut now) because he looks so cute when he fusses.

[Main Masterlist]

[gurugirl]

Okay queen G, where's our balancing act spoiler? You promised it today!! I'm waiting patiently like a good girl 😇

I was gonna share it later on but you've convinced me. Since you say you're being a good girl I'll give you the sneak peek early.

A Balancing Act Masterlist | Feedback & Comments

sneak peek from chapter 3 (coming this thursday)

Harry’s hand smoothed down her hip to her thigh and stopped at the hem of her dress before he began pushing the material upward, “Is this okay?” He whispered against her skin.

Y/n nodded and put her hand over his, assisting him in pushing her dress up, “Yes.”

That was all he needed to have them both return to the state they’d been in before he saw the framed photo of her on her wedding day.

“Good. Then let’s turn this terrible movie off and get you naked.”

She remembered him telling her he’d brought some things. But what his small suitcase revealed was not expected, a vibrating wand, black bondage tape, 2 sets of cuffs, and various sizes of clamps. And a bottle of lube.

Harry explained everything to her as he kissed her gently and removed her clothes, “We don’t have to use any of this. But I thought it would be fun to try. I think you’ll like some of these. Have you ever been tied up?”

Y/n shook her head as she ran her fingers over the smooth tape, “No. How does this work?”

He plucked the roll from her hand and began to unwind the tape as he spoke, “This won’t stick to your skin, it only sticks to itself. But it’ll work nicely to bind you. It’s not as harsh as rope and it’s easy to come off.”

When he pulled the wand out of the little cloth bag it was in he handed it to her, “Lie flat and put this over yourself. Place it where it feels the best and whatever setting you like the most.”

Harry was slowly getting into his dom mode and Y/n could see it. He started off gently and slowly. Lots of kissing, touching, talking… he had her feeling comfortable and she trusted him. The way he slowly kissed her arms and her tits, lowering his wet lips to the heavy underside of her breasts and squeezing her nipples as he dipped over her tummy and praised her, “Fucking gorgeous. Hard to believe I got so lucky.”

But when he told her to lie flat on the bed something had shifted into a different gear. It was a minute transition but it was noticeable. He unwound the tape as he watched her do as she was told.

She was completely naked while he was still dressed, which made her feel very vulnerable, exposed. She clicked the wand on to its low setting and placed the head in a spot she knew she’d like. It did feel good. She was already a bit wet from the kissing and the gentle touches but it didn’t take long for her to begin seeping and coating the vibrating silicone bulb that was pressed against her.

Harry kneed up to the bed and pushed her thighs further apart so he could see her better, “Because you’re new to this you probably don’t have any kind of safe word in mind yet. So if you don’t like anything, just tell me. Say stop and I will. If you like all this we can think of something to use in lieu of just stop. But for now, we’re not going to get too much into that kind of roleplay so no or stop will work.”

He wanted to show her the things he liked. These were all easy introductions into the way he liked to play and if they were going to be seeing one another more he felt it was good to start her out like this. Give her a slow, soft launch so she could explore the things she liked too. He’d move it up a notch later on. For now, the debut into dom and sub-dynamics would be very delicate. Eventually, they’d both learn what she liked together, that is if she wanted to stick around.

She nodded her head and Harry leaned over her and took the wand from her hand, “Arms over your head,” she quickly moved her arms upward as he positioned the wand against her clit and used the bondage tape to secure it in place, wrapping the tape around the handle to the top of her thigh and keeping the vibrating bulb at her pussy to give her just enough stimulation.

He climbed up and pushed her over to her tummy, the wand still working its magic, and pulled her hands behind her back, “I’m going to bind your wrists together like this,” he showed her the position and paused to make sure she didn’t have any objections, “and then,” he pushed her legs up by their shins, her ankles and feet up, thighs down, “use the tape to bind your ankles too. Is this okay with you?”

She nodded, “Yes.”

“Ah ah ah… Yes who?” He chided.

She bit her lip and smiled, “Yes, Daddy.”

Harry gave her a swat to her bottom, “There you go. I’ll give you one pass. If you forget to address me properly again we’ll take a break while I spank your bottom red.”

A Balancing Act Tags: @daphnesutton @indierockgirrl @stylesfever @harrys-jumper @ameerakane20 @harryssky1 @tobesolovelysstuff @jerseygirlinca

[nancypullen]

Still Alive

I haven't posted in ages because I've been blue and no one likes a whiner. I've spent my entire life being a cheerleader for others, encouraging, lifting, and seeking silver linings - but I seem unable to do that for myself. So, I apologize for the lack of blog posts, but they wouldn't have been fun anyway.

When I need a lift I usually turn to gardening or art. Gardening here has been one disappointment after another. I'm used to planning and executing beautiful floral landscapes, doesn't seem to matter what I do here - I get diddly squat. Interesting enough, I don't see any other yards with a bounty of flowers or pretty spaces, lots of Knockout Roses but that's about it. Remember the German Pink tomato plant that I brought back from Lancaster? It's incredibly healthy and over 6 feet tall. It's been producing yellow blossoms since May without a single fruit. But look what I spied this week....finally!

Three tiny tomatoes on the eve of September. What the hell? If I'm very, very lucky and I don't make eye contact with them or say something stupid like, "I can't wait to taste a fresh tomato", I might get to pick them. I'm not holding my breath. The pumpkins have been blooming like crazy, not a fruit in sight. Without baby pumpkins by September 1st, there will be no Halloween pumpkins. Just another disappointment. I did everything I was supposed to do. I babied them, tried hand pollinating (I have yet to see a female bloom so I guess I was hoping for a same sex miracle), gave them expensive fertilizer - nothing worked. I truly think our biggest problem here is a lack of pollinators. It's very rare to see a bee, and I actually make a note in my journal when a hummingbird appears because it's also rare. I don't see moths or even beetles. Side note: I don't miss those @#$%!& Japanese Beetles. I don't know if what the farmers spray just kills everything in the area, or if there's more that I can do to attract those helpers. Guess I'll research it this winter, ever hopeful. Since gardening has not been uplifting, there's always art. I decided to try my hand at working with air dry clay. I saw some fun projects online and thought I'd give it a whirl. My plan was to make some ghosts that I could put a little tea light under. The first step was to build some sort of frame that the clay could drape over to be shaped and then to dry. I used a bottle of paint and a ball of aluminum foil. As always, my surly assistant was judging me.

That particular ghost started to crack while he dried. I think his bottom half was too heavy. I tried to just turn the crack into a smile, but it didn't work. I tried a second one with a simpler bottom, but had the same result.

I obviously need to read some tips and figure this out. Instead I grabbed a log of polymer clay from my stash and decided I'd just bake myself a ghost. That's when I had to figure out how to make a frame for him that could be baked. I found a little bud vase and some more foil, and it worked! This is him after being removed from the oven.

I gave him a quick coat of paint because the polymer clay was a translucent sort, not white. Then I grabbed this tissue paper...

and cut out some candy corn. With a little Mod Podge we have ourselves a Halloween ghost!

Okay, he's far from perfect, but after two failures I was tickled to have a whole ghost. Don't judge me.

Yesterday morning I decided to try making another ghost with the air dry clay, but not one that is hollow inside. Just a little ghost statue that I can paint. I was busy shaping him, my head full of ideas, and started making pumpkins on either side of him. Bad idea, it looked like a penis. I removed all but one small pumpkin and he is currently drying and waiting for my paintbrush.

Don't judge it just yet. It will be smoothed and shaped a little more. I also want him to look a little droopy because my plan is to paint him to look like a patchwork quilt. There's a children's book somewhere in that, right? A little ghost who wants to go haunting but all of the white sheets are taken, so he swoops under a quilt on the bed and because he's so cute and colorful no one is scared of him - Patch, the Ghost Who Couldn't Spook. Obviously, I have too much time on my hands. I've still got plenty of clay left, so maybe I'll make a pumpkin or two. I've got some autumn themed paper napkins that I could Mod Podge onto them. That might be cute to set on a window sill or even on my little porch table. Can you tell I'm ready for fall? Can't get here fast enough. I made this to post on September 1st, but why wait?

I've seen a couple of articles saying that fall will be delayed this year because temps are expected to stay warm into October. I might kill someone if that happens. We have a trip in October, perhaps France will have better weather? I hope I come home to freeze warnings.

Another reason I'm looking forward to autumn is that I am cautiously hopeful.

It's so refreshing to see decency and joy making a comeback. I'm afraid to trust it. I put our sign close to the front porch so the Ring doorbell can monitor it. This town is filled with big Trump signs, even a banner at the "Christian" gift shop on the main street. We're outnumbered here, but not scared. Don't even think of mentioning the pitiful state of the flower bed. In more good news, the cutest grandgirl in the world has started first grade. She's loving it, and on day two she lost her wiggly front tooth. I think the snaggle-toothed stage is so cute. She certainly enjoys visits from the tooth fairy. Since I can't share pictures of her sweet face, I'll share her back-to-school sign that she held for first day photos.

She wants to be part of the Wild Kratt team when she grows up. If you're unfamiliar with Wild Kratts, think of a cooler, hipper Marlin Perkins (times 2, because it's the Kratt brothers). Any other boomers out there that loved Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom?

That's where I learned that elephants can't jump. Still waiting for that to come up on Jeopardy. Anyway, I'm glad she's an animal lover. I don't trust people who don't like animals. That's enough from me for now. I needed to get something posted so the kind folks who thought I'd kicked the bucket don't need to look for my obituary. OH! That reminds me. I had a dream a few nights ago and couldn't wait to tell my sister about it. Preface: Since it's a mystery what happens to us after we die (you can claim to know, but you don't know) I'm always curious about what others think. Mickey and I had been discussing what we hope will happen, so that's probably what prompted my dream. Anywayyyyy, in my dream I was in a hospital bed and Mickey was standing beside it. Side note: my hair was dark and I looked younger, so I guess I died a while ago. Mickey was saying those awful things that people say to the dying, like, "You can go now" and "It's okay for you to go..." I would probably wake up from a coma just to let him know that I don't need his permission. But in this dream I took a deep breath and then burst into a cloud of pink glitter. The cloud swirled around and around and then flew out an open double window. This window opened onto the most beautiful landscape of rolling hills and flowers and cartoon bluebirds were flitting about, singing. I'm sure a psychologist would have a field day with that dream, but I found it oddly reassuring. I wouldn't mind it one bit if I turned into glitter and flew away on a breeze. There are certainly worse ways to go. Just my luck I'd end up as the glitter on a grade school art project or some dollar store party decorations. Still, at least I'd have a purpose. I'm still kind of in the camp that we have lessons to learn here and if we don't learn them the first time we have to come back and learn them the hard way - so be nice. Speaking of lessons, I probably needed to see this calendar page yesterday.

Okay, now I really am finished. It's 5 o'clock and my stomach is telling me that it's time to start dinner. I hope that wherever you are and whatever you're doing, it's bringing you joy. If you can't reach joy from where you are, I hope that life is at least not causing you pain. Stay safe, stay well, hang in there. XOXO, Nancy

[itsnotunfinisheditsmystyle]

Hmm how about 16 or 31 for darkolai? whichever vibes better for u

So I picked 16, aka Brand new neighbours AU, and for some reason it became, well, whatever this is. Pyotr dies in it, huzzah.

"There are worse places to be sent to rot," Zoya commented as she ran a critical finger over a shelf to evaluate the dust. Barely a speck.

No doubt a team had been sent beforehand to clean up the place where their beloved inspector would be put away like a too fragile doll in a special box.

Even Nikolai's ten million watts smile did not quite hide how bitter the decision made him. Truly, if it was up to him he'd find a way to turn the situation to his advantage instead of running away. He had been so close, almost felt like he was grazing Morozova's back with his fingertips, just about to pull him in and force him to reveal his face.

The chief said his father's murder must have been because of that. A warning.

Nikolai called bullshit. First, killing him would have been a much more definitive warning. Second, Morozova had shown he was way too well informed to truly believe killing Pyotr Lantsov would do much to his disowned and repudiated second not-really-son. Third, he probably had a lot of other reasons to go after him, given his usual patterns.

Not that Nikolai could prove any of that because he had never been able to rip the truth of his father's illicit activities out from under the heavy rug of corruption. He had no doubt been caught up by one or the other of his side businesses, tried to bite more than he could chew, and a bigger fish of the underworld had gone after him.

No, of course not, it had to do with Nikolai and his job and his relentless pursuit of crime rings' heads, and it meant shoving him in a cosy drawer in a remote little village for his own safety.

"Cheer up, Nikolai. David won't remove your access to the files so you can still be nosy and overworked here. And I'm sure you can find some distractions. The sea is right there… Nice, mh, hikes? Perhaps cute neighbours?"

"Cute elderly neighbours, more like,"

He missed the bustling city already. Where there was always something to do.

Nikolai had never been the kind to seek peace and quiet.

**********************

Two months in and he had given in. Nikolai had planted hydrangeas on each side of his door and was tending to them. Gardening had proven surprisingly good at calming his racing mind. Perhaps he ought to get some chicken as well. Of course half of his brain was still constantly filled with cases and leads and evidence but that couldn't be helped. His team was running in tapioca without him, and they weren't getting any closer to Morozova. Still the man shrouded in shadows, no face, no real name, nothing but the neverending list of crimes he had committed.

The sound of a car driving in gravel interrupted his thoughts and he raised his eyebrows at the unexpected sight of a sleek black car, too silent to be running on gas, pulling up in the driveway of the house next to his.

Oh. He had seen that SOLD sign go up.

He watched with curiosity as his new neighbour got out, a man around his age in a suit that looked thoroughly out of place in the pastoral landscape. His hair was just as dark, tidily combed back with some strands framing his lean face, and when their eyes met he was mesmerised by how pale they were.

“Hi!” he waved in an attempt at looking friendly and less impressed than he was.

Perhaps impressed wasn’t the right word as he gave the stranger another once over.

A smile answered his, and the black-clad man waved back.

“Hello, Nikolai Lantsov,” his voice was smooth and cool as water over rocks, matching perfectly the chilling guess. Nikolai immediately tensed, and the man’s smile only widened. Then he tapped the letter box he was standing right next to. Nikolai’s letterbox. With his stupid name on it. He relaxed with a sigh, mentally kicking himself.

Maybe he was strung up. 

Maybe the good looking man shouldn’t act so creepily.

“Should I wait until you put up your own letterbox to know your name?”

“Perhaps, who doesn’t like a good mystery?” 

Nikolai sure enjoyed a good mystery, and he grinned at the stranger.

“You look like an Adrik,”

“Two good letters, Nikolai,”

The stranger moved to his front door, unlocking it and peering inside before turning his attention back to Nikolai, tilting his head slightly.

“Try again tomorrow,”

******************

“Of course not, I haven’t touched the Morozova files, as per orders, chief,” Nikolai chirped, cellphone squeezed behind his shoulder and his ear as he thumbed through his team’s latest findings on Morozova. “I got plenty to keep me busy here. I’ve been working on the cases you send me, gardening… I have a new neighbour, even,” Old bank records of a card that might have belonged to Morozova, although it was under an entirely different name of course. Groceries, gas fuel, mostly terribly boring expenses as he went through the rows with his finger. A recurring donation. Generous, too. Sankt Grigori Foster Home? Nikolai scribbled the name on a post-it, absentmindedly listening to his superior officer. “Yeah, I’m actually going there tonight, we are having some drinks. He’s nice,” More than nice, Aleksander —his name was Aleksander Kirigan, as Nikolai found out by snooping in the local newspapers for the notaries— and him had definitely crossed the line of cordial neighbours straight into flirting territory. “Haha, yeah, you could say it takes my mind off things. Anyway, I’m going to leave you to your work and go back to mine, bye,”

He’d look up that foster home later. 

Maybe the move did help a little with his obsession for this case. Although it was mostly because he was now obsessing on someone else. Well, his friends would say it was an improvement, as the subject of his obsession was not a criminal for once, and the end goal wasn’t putting him behind bars. 

Evenings with Aleksander were usually spent having a nice dinner together, that Nikolai cooked more often than not. Then they’d have some wine and play cards or chess while chatting, plenty of good excuses to brush hands and smile conspiratorially at each other. 

Nikolai always liked a chase. 

“Cheat,” he called out.

Aleksander all but batted his eyelashes at him from above his cards. Then wordlessly flipped up the card he had just played, revealing a three of Spades as announced.

“Saints,” Nikolai nearly threw his own cards. “How are you so good at this game?”

“You’re not bad yourself,” In fact, they were both down to a few cards.

“Played it a lot back in the academy,” he begrudgingly picked the card he had wrongly called out.

“Cops learning how to play card games that are all about cheating and lying,” Aleksander hummed in amusement.

“Talk for yourself, you’re beating me so far. Four of Hearts,”

“I grew up around a lot of other kids. Cheating and lying is how we’d play any game. Five of Diamonds,”

Aleksander rarely spoke of his childhood or family, and frankly Nikolai didn’t either so he never pressed him on the matter, but he still leaned in interest.

“Have I ever asked you if you have any siblings?”

“I do, a half-sister. But this was a foster home. It was very lively,” he said fondly before gesturing at him to play.

A smile tugged at Nikolai’s lips, picturing the dignified man he knew as a cheating little brat surrounded by other kids. In spite of him clearly showing a preference for staying inside and tending to his business (literal business, from what he knew of his job in finances), he was skilled with others, getting all their elderly neighbours wrapped around his finger in no time.

“Six of Hearts,”

“Cheat,”

“Damn it!”

Aleksander grinned, Nikolai’s stomach swooped, and he found he didn’t care much about losing when the other man reached for his card to flip it over and reveal that he indeed lied about what it was.

“I hope you are better at lying when undercover,” he purred.

“I haven’t done undercover in a long while,” he sighed wistfully. He did miss the excitement of it all. “Also my targets are usually a lot less distracting,”

Aleksander tossed down his last card.

“Seven of Spade,”

“No way your last card is magically a seven now. Cheat,”

“I think I’d be good at undercover. I don’t mind… Distracting targets,” The long up-and-down look he gave Nikolai was nothing subtle, and the target in question felt himself flush like a hormonal teenager.

“I believe you on that, ô Lord of lying and cheating. Show your card, don’t delay,”

“So eager to lose, Nikolai?”

Nikolai placed his hand above the card in challenge, staring Aleksander down before flipping it over.

Seven of Spade.

Aleksander chuckled and condescendingly patted his cheek as his expression fell.

“Lying, cheating, and counting cards, Nikolai,”

[multiverse-aesthetic]

Play me a memory

• tva Loki aka 2012 Loki

Ps. He saw his future till Thanos like in season 1 and saw how his relationship with codie had become through the years

*****************************************

It was a sunny morning in new York , streets busy as always and codie is busy as always but this time not with work thank god , she was tidying up her flat , moving everything that’s related to him … loki.

After a year she wanted to move on , after what thanos done to her .. and to the world it was hard to do anything so now she decided it’s time to move on , she removed every photo of them and into a box , she got the pictures that was in the bedroom , she stopped sleeping in it after he left , with a heavy sigh she closed the door and went to the living room pumping into a box on her way she almost stumbled , she placed the frames of picture on the table as she crouched down opening the small box , seeing records in it , she smiled as soon as she know what they are , with a hesitant hand she grabbed and went to the tv and started to play it and sat on the couch .

“So what do you think love ?” loki says through the tv , the camera was on him and the wall behind him that has lots of book in

codie’s breath hitched as she heard his voice , this was way back when they wanted to organize a library in their flat

“Where did you get all those book from?” codie says her chuckle comes from the screen as loki turned the camera towards her , she had her back facing him , wearing her jumpsuit with a shirt under it

“You look stunning” he chuckles

“Haha flirting doesn’t suit you loki” she says sarcasticly as she turned to face him

“Why are you filming ?”

“Because .. this is a memory darling”

“A chaotic one” she laughs

“I rather think it’s a beautiful one dear”

She smiles as she looks at the video of the two of them but something caught her eye a gold flicker next to the tv she hit pause on the video as she goes to the flicker and suddnely as she stood in front of it it turned to a door

“What the hell-” she says but three women came through it , codie backs away

“codie joans we need you to come with us” one of the women says , codie didn’t have time to reacts as the woman grabbed her and lead her through the door into another place

“Let go off me !” she says loudly as she tried to yank her hands away but the women placed a collar on her neck

“ we need you to remain calm”

Loki was in the library as he gathered information that Mobius but he heard a women voice ringing loudly through the place , he payed no attention to it , but her voice sounded so familiar to him , his eyebrows frowned as he counties to read through he papers but again he heard it

“Let me go!” She shouts loudly

And he knew exactly who was that but it couldn’t be her “codie?” he whispers to himself as he looked through the library before dropping the papers and got up and out of the library and into the hall where the voice is coming from , seeing the guards holding a women by her arms but he can’t see her face as her back was facing him , loki saw Mobius and went over to him .

“Who is that ?” loki asks as he looked at the women with curious look , Mobius looked at loki “oh her .. nothing , just another one messing the timeline” he says shrugging his shoulder , loki tilted his head to the side trying to get a look at her face , Mobius looks at him with a grin , the guards turns around and her face was visible to loki .

His eyes winded codie..” he whisperes

Codie on the other hand had her gaze on the floor

“You! Let go off her” loki shouts as he walked towards them

Codie lifted her head at the sound of … of a familiar voice , but how ? she looked up and saw him.. loki .. she thought she’s in a dream ..

“I said let her go!” He says again and the guards looks around them and Mobius then nodded his head towards them , the let go off her arms and moved away but not too much in case something happened .

Codie looks at him with glassy eyes , she can’t believe he’s here .. and without a second thought she ran towards him and hugged him placing her hands around his neck “loki..” she whispers in relief , he stumbled back a bit but he was quick to catch her in his arms .

He placed her feet on the floor again as she broke the hug , her hands went to his face

“Oh , it’s really you” she whispers as she strokes his cheek

A tear streamed down her face “how? How did you survived .. I saw you- I saw you laying there” she says quietly her voice cracks in the middle of the sentence , he placed his hands over hers removing it gently from his face

“Because .. it didn’t happen yet … I’m not that loki , I’m still loki that you know but from the past” he explains quietly

“I saw it too .. I heard what you said , I saw how your life was after I was gone” he adds as he strokes her knuckles with his thumb

Her eyebrows frowned in confusion

“I’ll explain later” he says quietly with a nod as he reached under her hair and with a click he removed the collar that was around her neck

“She's human.. she doesn't have powers” he says to the guards as he held the collar up to them and then dropped it

“I know which loki you are … I can tell , but I don’t care , if it means that I will play you every memory we done together I’ll do it” she says quietly as she squeezed his hand gently as a reassuring squeeze , she got closer and kissed his cheek , her lips lingering there for a second before breaking away and hugging him once again , he hugs her back as he lowered his head over hers giving a kiss over her hair .

[cheerfullycatholic]

For the WIP Game: The Work In Progress?

😅 okay so...I started writing this novel in 2018 so how it's written really sucks and it's unedited but this is one of my favorite scenes (that isn't intense or bloody or gory or whatever else) and I wanna share it anyway. I tried to get it as accurate as possible to learning how to shoot a gun and even had my brother go with me to shoot the gun that I had my character shoot before writing it and idk, I'm just really proud of it even if it sucks

we'll uh, call it Target Practice, I guess

“I’d never shot a gun before I left the city.” I said as he led me towards an old bench. We were outside of the town, maybe a mile or so away. A large pile of sand sat in front of us, various metal targets in front of it.

“I could tell.” He grinned as he sat down his duffle bag, pulling out a few hand guns and many cases full of bullets varying in size. He held up a small black gun, pulling the slide back, showing me that it was empty. “This is a Ruger American 9mm. Your hands are small, it’ll fit you good.” I nodded as he handed it to me.

The gun was heavy, with small words etched into the barrel and handle.

“Never place your finger on the trigger until you’re willing to shoot whatever is in front of you.” Sheepishly, I removed my finger off the trigger, placing it under the trigger guard. Dimitri smiled slightly, grabbing another gun out of the bag. Standing next to me, he showed me how he held it.

“Your finger should be in front of the trigger guard. So, when you’re ready to shoot, you just pull your finger back.” I nodded, mimicking him. Next, he showed me how he gripped the gun.

“Don’t cross your thumbs, because when the slide comes back, you’ll lose them.” He gripped his gun in his right hand, then wrapped his other around the handle of the gun. But instead of crossing his left thumb over his right, he placed it on the left side of the gun, putting his right thumb over it. “Cradle the butt of the handle with your left hand, okay?” I nodded, doing as he said. He nodded in approval, setting down his gun.

“Now, when you’re holding the gun, don’t ever point it at something you’re not willing the completely destroy.” He walked back to me, guiding my outstretched hands downward. “When you’re not aiming to kill, point the barrel of the gun to the ground, but not at your feet. You kind of need those.” I chuckled, nodding. I didn’t know there was so much to handling a gun. The number of things you need to remember is almost scary. And to think I didn’t kill myself with Brann’s gun. I got off lucky.

“Alright, two more things before you can shoot.” He came over, holding a case of bullets in his hand. “This gun, and most hand guns, don’t have a safety lock, so they are always ready to shoot. And always, always, treat any gun as if it’s loaded. These aren’t toys, they are tools. Tools that can do a lot of damage. They’re not something to play with, so treat them with respect.”

“If they’re so dangerous, then why do you even have them?” I asked, glancing at the weapon in my hand.

“Because they keep us safe. Sure, you could use a knife or spear, but guns are effective at keeping you alive. Think of it as an equalizer. If my enemy has a gun, I want one, too. And a lot of people out there have guns. As long as you know how to use them properly, they will never hurt you from your own hand.” I nodded again as he removed something from his pocket. Holding it up, he showed it me as the sun glinted off its metal frame.

“This is the magazine, or clip, as Bennett wrongfully calls it. It holds the bullets.” He loaded it, then took the gun from me and slid it up the handle until it clicked into place. “You have sixteen bullets,” he said, pulling the slide back before handing it to me. “When aiming, line this dot up with the site.” He showed me the white dot at the end of the barrel and where it was supposed to be through the tiny ridge at the other end, then stepped back.

My heart thundered as I held the gun up, placing my fingers in their correct places. Dimitri came up behind me, placing one hand on my shoulder.

“Lean into the gun, don’t be afraid of it.” He mumbled into my ear, pushing my upper body forward. Truth be told, I was scared. The last time I shot a gun, we were being attacked by hellhounds. But I could do this. I had to, so I could find Ezra and save Ophelia. Taking a deep breath, I lined the white dot up with the ridge, then aimed at the closest target, one shaped as a man’s upper body. Letting out the breath I was holding, I moved my finger back until it passed the guard and touched the trigger. Tightening my grip, I pulled the trigger, my eyes widening as the force of the shot rang through me. I almost dropped the gun in surprise. It was a lot stronger than Brann’s, or maybe the adrenaline pumping through my veins on that day made me not the feel the kick of the weapon.

I hadn’t realized how spaced out I was until Dimitri’s voice hazily reached my ears through the ringing of the shot that still bounced through my head.

“You hit slightly to the left. Try again, aim for the head.” My body shook slightly as I nodded again, reassurance flooding my body as Dimitri squeezed my shoulder. “You’re doing good, it’s okay.” Biting my lip, I pulled the trigger again, this time being rewarded with a small ding as the bullet hit the edge of the target. I felt an overwhelming urge to make that noise again. Locking my eyes on the target, I shot three more times. Three dings echoed back at me.

“Nice shooting,” Dimitri smiled, patting my shoulder. “You’ll be a pro soon enough.”